Goodnight Enterprise
by Telaka
Summary: Archer and T'Pol head one of several different stories about how some of the crew got on with their lives after the final landing back on Earth of the Enterprise NX01. Finished
1. After They Were Famous

**_Goodnight Enterprise_**

_Summary: _ Archer and T'Pol head one of several separate stories about how some of the crew got on with their lives after the final landing back on Earth of the Enterprise NX-01.

_Disclaimer: _No, I don't own a single soul, idea or general muse that already belonged to the series. Not one of them makes me any money, that I know of…

_AN:_ All I really have to state here is that I live in Scotland, and so have seen none of Season Three. In light of trying to keep it all a lovely surprise for myself when it comes on the telly over here (and failing miserably to do so) what happens in the Expanse is anyone's guess for me and whoever doesn't have Cable, and we have six months to go (September) until we find out. I have no resentment over that fact... So in consequence if some people or events are a little or even horribly out of character or synch from during that time in this story now, well, you know why.

_One last note here_: If there are any genuine fans glancing over this story at this very moment I suggest you go to _www.saveenterprise.com_, write down a few addresses from the sight, then pour your hearts out in a letter and pledge to save this show for at least another season. If the original could be saved by the fans this way, then why not '_Enterprise'_?

_Really, last note: _I've also decided to dedicate this to the memory of Kellie Waymire, who played the lovable Ensign Elizabeth Cutler, and who died in November last year. You were most definitely to me the best minor character on that show.

_Telaka_

. . . . . . .__

There is a lot I remember of that night, the night our crew of eighty-three strong returned back to the planet they had left behind for a mission into the void of the Expanse, and then five years of further space exploration after that.

I remember the cheering - full hearted, pride smeared cheering - and an array of paper colours, of glitter and glue and the smell of finely cooked gourmet food, stirred in with much preferred grease-clad takeaways.

When our feet touched on the solid, formidable concrete floor of Starfleet once again I remembered our greeting as being a sea of bright, painfully wide smiles, of eyes smudged with tears and cheeks flushed with a release of taut apprehension that had always worried for our safe return home. Hands grasped at the air, reaching out to touch us even though their fingertips would never make it, unless you were family.

And all around us family gathered. They came with their love, and feelings of loss once again diminished when they wrapped their frighteningly tight embraces around those they thought they would never see again. Words flew out from their excited mouths faster than their dry pink lips could speak them, and speeches that had been prepared for months fell prey to a chocked throat and further warm, precious holds. Faces were lost in chests and the smiles grew painfully wider still.

We were honoured that night, like we never would have dreamed to be. Children with their crisp white dresses and finely tailored suits, ribboned with ivory lace in their fine blonde hair, or strung up at the neck with handsome silk bow ties, teetered towards us, both shy and in wide-eyed awe. They passed us flowers and certificates, and the little boys shook our hands with gap-toothed smiles, and the little girls blushed feverishly when they took a kiss on the cheek. The red carpet was drawn by their eager little hands and we were shown what areas of Starfleet those in charge had decided to name after us.

I remember behind the gold barriers were barriers of speechless or high-pitched admirers. They were our runways as we sauntered through the halls and rooms of Starfleet, with every hall and room hauling back both bitter and sweet memories of the past to us.

They dedicated an entire room to the Captain. It was a small room, and one that had not stood when we had last stood here. It was a room simply to look at, it had no function or base of operation to call its own. Instead the room stood as a symbol. Inside, in the middle of its azure laid carpet and cream dashed walls, was the Enterprise NX-01 scaled down and immobilised in a rich bronze, set sturdy to stand for generation to come. Across its fine oak base was a plaque of the purest gold, engraved in flowing silver with the simple statement_: _

_"Jonathan Archer - Who boldly took us where we had never dream of going before."_

It brought tears to his experienced eyes. I don't imagine I had ever seen him shed salty tribute before. I had seen him shed the same salty spills from his dark eyes in grief on a number of accounts, and I had seen him spill the grief over me before, although I never saw myself worthy of those delicate drops of watery silver.

The small room of commemoration led to several others. Each was the same, with no functional purpose, instead only to display and inspire the generations of Starfleet recruits to come. Commander Tucker, Trip's beloved Warp Six engine as he himself had upgraded it to, stood immortalised in the same solid bronze as the Captain's ship. He didn't cry, he only shied and grinned uncontrollably, his sweet Southern twang long for now in his tight throat.

There were Lieutenant Reed's phase canons as well, and as he posed in front of them with his chest swelled and arms firmly crossed his eyes remained trained on his Captain's, never ceasing in saying thank you.

The four or five small rooms they had built and structured for us carried on in a museum of bronze. Everyone had their say, had their small moment in front of the cameras and the fans, except myself.

I stayed stubbornly in the back. I allowed my fellow crewmembers to absorb the attention and glory and concentrate it far away from me. I was not for celebrating and I was content to go unnoticed and unmentioned in the shadows of their wake. I didn't receive any mention as the Captain and Malcolm and Trip had. I assured myself that it did not matter, but the act of being left out, I remembered, left something strangely akin to hurt inside of me.

After spending seven years with my Captain though, I should have sussed easily enough out that this would not to remain the case.

As they continued to admire a room of plaques, and that was all it was, a room laden solely with plaques of the names and titles of the eight-three past and present that had loyally serves the Captain and the ship, he slipped carefully away from the side of an overwhelmed Hoshi and took up mines instead.

We had both come to the same sorrowful conclusion that night, as we often had in the past with other events and personas. Our eyes had discovered the same crude observation and as I claimed to feel nothing over it, he felt pity and anger.

Not a single member of my kind stood in amongst the humans' swelling masses. Not a sole Vulcan was present to see this triumphant return, to shake my hand and look me in the eye to commemorate a 'job well done'. I had family, but none of them had accumulated in the crowds either, and none of them would have dared left Vulcan just to greet the black sheep of their name back into their midst. It is what I remember most about that night.

I did not show my disappointment, and I didn't register it in myself that that was what I was feeling. Yet somehow the Captain could see that this was how it was inside me, and for the remainder of this tidal wave of love and affection he remained stubbornly at my side. He also wanted to show me something, and it was in the room of plaques, a room blinding to the eye if you stood at the wrong angle from the slim line white lights above.

The rest of the crowd had moved on. They had shifted into a room dedicated to the new life forms and scientific discovers that we had fallen upon in our treks. This room was considerably larger than the others of before. However, we remained in the plaque room, and no one noticed. Trip had begun to speak, and his every golden word they clung onto with gripping fascination and refused to let go. The Captain smiled and shook his head as he watched for a momentary second before he got back to his business with me.

I was frowning. I often did when he acted in this way of his. He would smile, and there would be something dangerous in his eyes, a look that one would hold if they were in on a said surprise party. He had thrown me one of these once. And although I would never on my life admit it, I had enjoyed it. How Trip had seized the date of my birthday I still was to find out, and I had sworn unto myself that I would one day.

Now though I highly doubted that the same bridge crew and doctor were hidden in the mess hall, with a human cake and Vulcan delicacies laid out by the plate load. And I was right. The room remained deserted as the Captain guided me to the other side of where we currently stood.

He didn't have to say anything. He knew he didn't have to say anything as my own plain brown eyes guided me to the golden plaque with its beautiful silvery writing and commemoration that was dedicated solely to me. I read:

_"T'Pol. The only Sub Commander I could ever imagine having on my ship, and a friend I hardly deserve most of the time. Jonathan."_

I said nothing, and he said nothing. He smiled in that same tearful way he had when reading his own commemoration, only he didn't shed the tears this time, I did.

. . . . . . .

Things had calmed down somewhat considerably after the tour of the commemorations to the NX-01's fine crew. Calmed down in the sense that the unrelated fans had gone home and only beloved families and dear friends remained. Now was the time for the party. Crew and their kin and acquainted ones alike gathered in a colossal affair of a hall brimming with balloons and streamers and sugar and music, swirled dizzily together with vivid colours and dancing lights. It gave out headaches in the best possible sense, was a captor of the partygoer and lassoed even the coyest in nature to the dance floor. After two hours in not a pair of feet dared to sit anymore. Instead the dance floor took a heavy beating from the ecstasy of the reunion. People made joyous fools of themselves and no one cared. Their antics of ungraceful salsa and moves far beyond their years were laughed at and applauded full-heartily. It was a moment in life that every person who was lucky enough to experience and appreciate it never wished for it to end.

Yet still one silent, lonely soul managed to let it all pass over her hung head, and sit willingly in a dark corners without ever allowing herself to witness the fun and envy every single body involved in it. She dutifully reminded herself that envy was one of the most pointless emotions she had ever experienced.

In her solitaire corner a grey shadow dropped overhead. She failed to notice its warm presence at first, and her quiet eyes were only commanded to rise to it when the source of the grey shadow emitted a small dry cough and a single strained sentence.

"Having fun then Sub Commander?"

Although Archer smiled he visibly pained to see her draw back from what should have been one of the most treasured days of her life, of all their lives.

"The mission is over Sir, you do not have to call me Sub Commander anymore."

Beside her was an abandoned chair, coated with crumbs of fruitcake and cucumber sandwiches. He wiped it clean and took it.

"Well then, in the same respect you don't have to call me Sir or Captain anymore." He laughed quietly. "We couldn't have been any more than one step back on this planet and already Trip was calling my Jon again."

T'Pol did not see the point in joining in his amusement.

"So, where you going after this?"

Her eyes fell to the banner-clad floor again. "I haven't thought of that yet."

A twang of guilt struck hard in his stomach. "What about the Compound?"

"They no longer recognise me as a member there anymore."

He wondered why he spoke sometimes.

Three hours ago was slowly returning back to him. They had stood in that beautiful plaque room together, silent and motionless for the better part of fifteen long, crisp minutes. Three cold, foreign tears had traced down her olive cheeks in that time, and he had only noticed the last one. His thumb had dutifully wiped it away, and five minutes later Trip had joined them for a brief second to heed them of the party.

In human terms now T'Pol was thoroughly miserable. If a Vulcan were to class her mood they would take one gracefully long stride back, and calmly pronounced her suicidal. But T'Pol was not suicidal. That bleak feeling of hurt lingered annoyingly in her stomach again and she realised grudgingly that she was lonely and had been abandoned, firstly by her people, and then by her family.

"Well Porthos and myself are heading back up to where we call home."

Her distanced mind caught on to the tail end of the remark as it jerked back roughly to the present booming second. The Captain was offering her a wayward smile.

"You're more than welcome to join us."

The concept did not register at first. She nodded but Archer was fully aware that it was an aimless nod. Her eyes were still blank, she was still thinking furiously. As she contracted a conclusion his last statement finally raced towards her and loudly demanded her attention. She gave it that.

"I can't intrude."

He beamed. He was on his way to taking a 'yes' from her.

"T'Pol, you don't know how to intrude. You still apologise for 'intruding' in the mess hall if you find me there at night. And taking up an invitation is not an intrusion, not in humans' books anyway."

The 'yes' teetered dangerously on her pale lips. He leant forward slightly, his mid-arm resting on his thigh.

"And I think Porthos is beginning to like you."

He had clinched it. Not because he had used his dog to tempt her, but because she had come to the logical conclusion that she had nowhere else to go, and so had no right to deny herself such a convenient offer. The idea of a hotel, or even seeking a room in Starfleet never seemed to dare cross her mind. Finally she nodded very slightly. He sat back and nodded with her.

"Give me a couple more hours fraternising and then it'll back to my place." He then paused, frowned and smiled. "Sounds like how all my dates use to end."

Something akin to horror fleeted very briefly past her subdued eyes and he laughed again, only with more empathy this time round.

"I have two bedrooms T'Pol, and I'll be the perfect gentleman, I promise."

Of course she trusted every word he had ever uttered to her, after her first few tense weeks on Enterprise were over. She rarely agreed with them on first hearing, but she knew that every suggestion and decision he had ever declared had always been laced with his best intent. She nodded again very slightly.

"Thank you, Sir."

There was a second of devoted silence between the two. Archer smiled with the hint of bittersweet sadness sat neatly on the corners of his lips.

"Jonathan, T'Pol. My name's Jonathan."

. . . . . . .

The party ran away with the night and its success ran into the early morning. For such a magnificent venture into space to finally end it was there for the most part to soften the blow of its finale, but only succeeded in this task very slightly.

From in the middle of the riveting dance floor, and in amongst the epicentre of reunion and chat stood two very proud men, only now just realising what this gathering triumphantly and solemnly flag posted.

"Did y' notice there weren't any Vulcans hangin' 'bout?"

Malcolm's lost gaze, which had tumbled into his lemonade, came to attention once again with Trip's curious observation. Trip's own keen gaze had followed Jonathan and T'Pol out as they made their quiet exit from the back door of the echoing hall.

Malcolm answered without so much a stumble out of his fixed trance. "I did actually, and quite frankly I'm not surprised."

He caught onto the direction of Trip's stare and watched T'Pol's heal disappear in the next brief second to follow.

"You'd think this was their prom night and they'd just discovered the joys of the abandoned bike shed."

Trip turned on Malcolm, his eyes a pallet painted with shock and hilarity at the obscure picture the Lieutenant offered. "Well good luck to 'em both when Principle Forrest discovers them."

A small laugh escaped Malcolm, but it was far from cast in his usual proud spirit and lacked any genuine volume of amusement. It forced Trip's gaze to work a double take on his friend's pale, set face.

"Somethin' eatin' at you Lieutenant?"

Malcolm sighed as way of a fruitless answer before making his way with Trip at his side back to the watering hole of the hall.

"I thought we were back on first-name terms Commander."

The punch table became their refuge as they stood casually on its corners, casting curious glances over at the two or three hundred odd that had come to gather at the feast of racket and cake. Trip watched his parents who had happened upon Phlox and who looked both bemused and fascinated by the kindly Denobulan who in turn was both bemused and fascinated by the set-up around him. The return of their only remaining offspring had been a painfully bittersweet affair for all three, but gradually became more of the sweet than the bitter as the hours sauntered by.

"They must be awfully proud of you Trip."

Turning he saw Malcolm's gaze was trained as his own was on the devoted couple with the doctor.

"Yeah, yeah they are. Just as much as Lizzie was."

They shared a solemn synchronised sigh. It was during this sigh that Trip latched guiltily onto the prompt of Malcolm's dry mood. Far be it for the Lieutenant to ever make a fuss over his own issues however, and even further be would most people take enough time to heed his issues. But Trip had always made the effort with Malcolm, due to the unlikely but highly treasured friend he had become to him.

"Folk's couldn't make it round then?"

An abrupt cynical laugh left Malcolm's throat in a headshake and a loose shrug. "They probably didn't even know the Enterprise was landing today. Although I thought maybe my sister would have made it." He briefly checked his watch. "Obviously not."

The Southerner wasn't entirely sure at all if it was appropriate to share in the short laugh. Instead he opted to down the remained of his bourbon quietly.

"Where y' headed to after this then?"

The Englishman emitted another shrug. "My little apartment up North maybe. Or even back to England. Cornwall can be nice this time of year, the bits away from the water anyway." He laughed, and Trip was lost on the geography. "I should probably drop by and see my parents though, let them know that we're all trampling along the same planet again."

Trip smiled and only because Malcolm found some level of dry humour in the thought that announced itself on the corners of his curling lips and bright wistful eyes.

"Up North. That's an awfully long way to go."

"Well I tagged along for seven years on the Enterprise and came through that alright I think."

Trip found he couldn't argue, not fairly and not with the admitted truth that on countless occasions the Lieutenant had faired far better than himself during the utmost stressful and difficult of times, and had even claimed a more level head than the Captain on a few accounts and T'Pol once. He had a certain unspoken amount of admiration for Malcolm for this, but had never been able to voice the appraisals to him. Often his stubborn Southern pride blocked it. Malcolm was perfectly well enlightened about this anyway.

"Come back to ma place for the night."

Malcolm hadn't really wagered that one.

"It's one o'clock in the mornin' an' if you go North then you have at least five hours of road on your hands. Ma place is an hour, tops."

Of course, as was often the case with Trip, there was more to it than what he offered on his first proposal. A quiet coyness had settled in his eyes, a secrete blush only just missing his cheeks. Malcolm was carrying out his best to suppress the teasing smile that fought to break his calm face. It disappeared with Trip's next explanation.

"Ah'm gonna visit Lizzie's grave tomorrow. They put up a memorial for her in the cemetery a mile down the road from where ma flat is. It's a coffin filled with her stuff, her work an' some of those stupid stuffed pigs she'd been colletin' since she was a kid, an' some photos, all that sorta junk."

He smiled fondly. "Well, not junk, really, just… silly stuff. Ah sent some of the photos of me an' the crew down for them too put in with it all."

In Malcolm's silence Trip coughed suddenly, the blush finally emerging across his neck as he realised how he had sidetracked slightly.

"Yes I'll come Trip."

He coughed once again and nodded briskly. "Thanks."

. . . . . . .

More later…


	2. House Guest

_AN: _ I have to say, the response surprised me, and for the most part pleasantly.

_Libran Iniquity – _so glad I'm not alone, someone who can appreciate how damn frustrating it is right now not to have viewing access to Season Three. 

Thanks for the sweet remarks from everyone else as well.

One small thing though – it does say in the summary "_Archer and T'Pol head one of three…"_ blah, blah, blah. So answer me this, why read it if you're not a fan of the couple? They're not even a couple in this story, not yet anyway, but that's besides the point. Make your dislikes heard in the anti A'T'P stories, not ones that have them as a couple, please. It just makes sense. _Antiarchertpol_ – your hatred for a fictional character scares me_. t,_ thanks for the spoiler… Appreciated…

_~Telaka~_

~. ~. ~. ~. ~. ~. ~.

Nothing had really changed on that narrow black, litter-strewn street that Jonathan had proudly called home for seven years of his life before Enterprise.  The side alleys were still backed up with abandoned deflated soccer balls and flags of drying washing still piled dangerously high up into the moss ridden rooftops in the grey skies above.  The pavements outside were still littered with potholes and crevices, and the front door steps to the ashen apartment blocks were still worn with well-rounded corners and edges.  It was still a picture of great age with a distinct musky smell still present in the heavy air around the block.  Mostly though, it was still home.

            In the back of the car was Porthos.  He knew this place as home as well his anticipating owner did.  His old frayed tartan bed beckoned warmly to him and with it his spot in the kitchen under the bay window where his food dish then and forever now always sat.  He whined accusingly at the car window, his only solid barrier to the comforts of apartment 187, before he turned his fantastically rich brown eyes on Jonathan.  Jonathan turned his own eyes on T'Pol.  She was asleep.

            It struck Jonathan as a strange sight to behold, after all this time.  He knew Vulcans slept, he was hardly that naïve, although the amount of hours they slept in comparison to humans he did not know – less than their generous eight he presumed.

He knew they meditated before they slept (which he finally gathered that was what she had been participating in when she had sat forward and closed her eyes two hours down the road), yet even after keeping a Vulcan as his much valued and trusted second-in-command for so many years, he still could not imagine such orderly and efficient beings wasting their time on sleep.

            He eventually made to wake her on a prompting whimper from a dire Porthos when he hesitated once again.  Seeing how peaceful and controlled her olive dashed face was reminded him of the changes she had undergone over the past seven years.  These changes were no light-hearted affair either, not on Vulcan terms at least.

            For most all members of the species it would have been fitting enough torture for the gravest and most taboo of all crimes; to be ordered on a star ship littered by the primates that were humans, and even outranked and commanded by one.  Being ridiculed for keeping emotions bound tight to the back of your subconscious; being judged and summarised simply by the fine pointed tips of your ears and being bombarded by laughter and anger and tears, the acts you must deny yourself the luxury of even in the most pressing of time, day in, day out.  T'Pol had despised every minute of her first mission away with the Enterprise NX-01.  After a week though that had slowly begun to change.

So when he compared her then, with the same façade of perfect control and efficiency that she wore on her sleeping face now, that mirrored the person she had been, the changes stunned him.  He wondered even if he hadn't destroyed her in a sense.

            Porthos barked.  The harsh call sunk into every corner of the car and forced T'Pol awake before Jonathan could shake her.  Something akin to a sheepish whimper escaped the beagle's maw quietly as Jonathan turned on him and glowered in the sightless dark.

            "Is this where you lived?"

T'Pol interrupted the confrontation between man and dog as she gazed silently upward at the towering mass of antique brick and concrete, her brow twitching to rise but staying put instead.  He smiled affectionately as he followed her eyes along the dated sculpture.

            "I could never bare to part with the place, so I gave it to my cousin Richard to look after while I was gone.  Neither of us banked on me being away for so long, so now's the test to see if he actually bothered after all this time."

            Finally they exited the sleek silver beast that Jonathan had been given off Starfleet, Porthos and his quick white paws commanding instant lead as they made for the front door.

The door was as ancient as the rest of the building and its accompanying street, painted in a dull matted green and chipped away across its rough surface to tell of the many other coats composed of the same dull lime that had been layered on in the past.  Beside it though on an ancient grey slab a sophisticated chunk of security apparatus sat boasting its most up-to-date upgrades against the backdrop of a wall that had seen many eventful, sorrowful and difficult seasons.

            Out of a habit that had never died Jonathan scuffed his feet against the curved edges on the top step of three. T'Pol stood ridged at the shadowed bottom, standing as she had so many times before in his commanding midst.  Porthos was at her feet, circling restlessly between her slim ankles, ever whining and anticipating the final destination of his long deserted bed.

T'Pol had never hindered any affection for the small dog.  Whereas she had finally come to tolerate his often overpowering scent as she had with the humans she had never so much as brought her hand to glide across his finely marked back or behind the soft down of his oversized ears to scratch it with the tips of her fingers.  Yet now she barely took notice of the actions, actions which would have before set her sensitive skin to crawl and her nose to object to the weltering smell with a slight crinkle across the bridge, as his warm side persisted to brush up and along her ankles during the time it took the owner to unleash the door, and inevitably his dog inside.  Porthos was gone when the hinges subsided, up the stairs that were within and around their winding pathway towards the fourteenth floor he remembered sauntering up for the first few months of his active life with Jonathan, before Enterprise had beckoned them both.  Beagles were renowned for being smart and he was no real exception with that.  He would be sitting patiently outside apartment 187 before Jonathan and T'Pol had even managed to call down the elevator.

            "I think I underestimated him."

Jonathan turned to T'Pol with a creased smile.  "He's not exactly your average beagle."

There was no argument in that.

            There was argument however in whether it was miserable nerves or uncomfortable apprehension that Jonathan watched flicker by in T'Pol's even cast eyes as they darted up, down and around every gap and corner to the shadowed ground floor hallway of the apartments.  He settled on a medium between the two and offered her the rusty elevator first, playing up to that perfect gentleman he had promised her he would be.

            She always knew he act of nothing less.

            She was intrigued, and for a Vulcan it was a generous way to be when in viewing of a human's living quarters.  She fell short of being disgusted or uncomfortable, instead reaching to be curious and even approving of where her former Captain had once lived.

It was a simple affair, a two bedroom flat with one joining en suite and a living room and kitchen joined as one decent sized room, separated only by the divide of lino and carpet and handsome oak worktops.  

The walls were of a placid yellow and the carpet a modest beige, a combination that neither insulted nor excited the eye.  His ceilings were dirty ivory and the window frames an unpolished sun-bleached birch.  For the time they lived in, it was quite an old-fashioned settlement, with an old homely feel throughout.

            Porthos had wasted no time in settling his rump down in his old tartan bed, which still took up its terrain in Jonathan's little bedroom.  Jonathan had followed him in as he conducted a brief overview of the condition of the place.

            "Well, I can't complain."

As he stood in the middle of the living room, declaring that that was his inspection over he turned to T'Pol.  She remained standing in the doorway, the door not having managed to shut over yet as she lingered unsure of how an appropriate way to behave here would be.  Her head was tilted very slightly to her shoulder and her eyes carried on the same scrutinising search that they had begun in the car.

            "It's okay to come in you know."

He brought forth her attention quickly and she stepped forward without a word.

            "You hungry?"

Her eyes had rolled onto the biggest of the accessories in the apartment, his television set; a wide flat screen that dominating the south wall of his living room.  It was impressive in its colossal state, but to her one of the most useless and abused pieces of apparatus humanity had ever conjured up from their inventive minds.

From there she came across an empty crystal vase on a birch windowsill, certificates and abstract art pieces littered on the other walls and numerous photographs of Jonathan with his family or Trip or Porthos, and there was even one small silver framed picture of himself and Hoshi in Brazil, taking up residency in a stack of suspiciously unstable looking shelves.  

These were just the 2D photographs though, and she discovered albums under his coffee table and on the shaky shelves that were crammed full of the small silver disks containing holograms no doubts of himself and his loved and acquainted ones.

Then she realised she had been spoken to and consisted not so much to blush as to hide some sort of buried level of embarrassment in her ever docile gaze.

            "No, I'm fine thank you."

Jonathan leant on the kitchen units for a minute, and battled with her for the better part of thirty seconds to claim eye contact with her, which he eventually grasped in the end.

            "You haven't eaten since we left Enterprise, and all I've had since then is Admiral Forrest's mother's fruit cake, which has left much to be desired with my tongue…" He reflected on that for a second then shook the thoughts away.  "I'm sure I have something in here that'll do us both anyway."

Without offering his ear to another word from T'Pol he began scanning his cupboards and fridge for a vegetarian supplement to his usual evening meal of anything taken from a cow or a pig.

            "I phoned Richard, asked ahead if he'd restock for me…"

T'Pol watched silently the amusement that was Jonathan Archer's backside high in the air as he continued to root around in the bottom cupboards for something to claim as dinner for two.  He finally came up triumphant a few minutes later.

            "I don't suppose you've ever had beans before?"

~. ~. ~. ~. ~. ~. ~.

There were small church candles littered throughout my cupboards and drawers and one box of half full matches left over from all the birthday cakes and Christmases that had been seen in my modest little home, so aided by them that night I helped to settle her in.  It didn't so much unease me as pain me to have to do this, for as close as she had become to the humans aboard Enterprise, and as use as she had grown to our ways of life, our silly insignificant quirks and restless emotions, she was still a Vulcan, who you could tell when looking into her sage eyes, belonged on Vulcan with her family and her kind.  

And as much as I loved and truly did appreciate to have her company here on the first night of our retirement from Enterprise, and fully valued the comfort she offered from that hollowing fact, I knew she could never truly call my little apartment on my little corner of Earth home in any comfortable or content way.

Her continuing misery, to which she would have denied that was how she felt, conjured up something in my own edgy soul that night and the conjuring in my dreams was what had been so far the most terrifying and utterly heartbreaking days of my life.  Only it wasn't so much a dream as just a vividly detailed and elongated recall of events, a reminder to the subconscious that those dark, damnable days had actually happened and I was most likely never allowed to forget them and all the many haunting moments that contracted with them.

Perhaps it was prompted most by my concerns for her and her vague future.  She had family, she had told me this back at that high-spirited party, but where were they?  On Vulcan, doubtlessly, burying their placid faces away from hers, their eyes cast over her shoulders, around her outline, anywhere but on her tainted body, to make sure she knew that she was no longer considered one of their bloodline, even to an extreme their species.  But they were not in my dream that night, to begin with anyway, simply because they did not belong to most of the memories that drew in like a hungry fog to claim the sweat from my brow and cold low grunts from my taut throat that night.

            "You lost her?" were three of the rare few words I remembered outing in the next lot of long and difficult days that were to come.  I couldn't see Trip over the communicator but the trembling panic in his quaky voice brought forth no other imagine but one of pale horror and complete devastation.

            "She aint answerin' her comm. sir, an' she aint where we said we'd rendezvous after we were both done with our jobs.  It's been two hours, ah thought ah should let y' know."

It was at this early on point that I had to stand back and remind myself of what a dear treasured friend Trip was, because if he had been footed in front of me right then and I had just happened to be holding a phase pistol in my cold white fist at that moment, then there would have been no flicker of hesitation in my stern unblinking eyes for that brief second of unaccountable rage that tore at my mind.  I knew, and I had proof from others' ears, that I had ordered them to stay close together in a planet that had little information about it held on the Vulcan database. 

            I listened to myself bark the orders I barely remember issuing now, and then demanding of Hoshi a scan for any Vulcan bio signs on the yellow surface we hovered steadily above.  Instead she offered me a hail that flowered before her as Trip's shaky voice left us and as I listened to it my heart fell hard to the floor.       

            "Captain Archer?  Yes, yes this is Ambassador Kreenal."

 A pale face of slight purple hue dominated my vision and a pair of arrogant crimson flared eyes heeded a warning to me that what she had to say would not bring me any desired relief.

            "Yes, I'm afraid I forgot to mention that our people hinder something of a most awful hatred for the Vulcan kind."  I almost laughed with shear disbelief, but instead remained in stony silence. 

"For years we have tried to right this wrong in them," the boredom in her voice wrote out an oxymoron of the truth to this, "but still, most of our people would hold no great guilt to heart if they were to say for the sake of talking, kill one of their many numbers.  Please, I urgently advise you warn your Sub Commander of this."

She was gone during the time it took me to blink blatantly at the screen.  The three pairs of eyes left remaining on the bridge were all trained, unflinching and painfully shocked, on me.

            "Malcolm."

He was on his feet before I had even finished the hoarse whisper of his name.

            "Yes sir."

            "You're with me."

The dream, or flashback, failed to recall to me in my trapped sleep most any of the agonizing two-day search that had followed, except minor blurry images and the tail end 'rescue' to conclude.  None of the three of us (Trip's guilt kept him down with Malcolm and myself) left the sweltering heat of the beautiful inner cities of a planet whose name I have long since forgotten.  We hunted vigorously through sandy back alleys and beehives of public buildings.  Not a street or pathway or city square wasn't raked and picked at by our dry squinted eyes.  We dared to ask if any of these purple painted faces had seen our lost science officer but we received so many black eyes and grazed cheekbones that the hate riddled silence we were always offered as our full answer did not become worth it anymore.

Hoshi's scans became lost causes; hers, our and everyone's hopes slowly and meekly began to erase themselves.  

            I could still feel the undesired aching that dominated every conscious nerve of my brain. It was a hybrid of guilt, loss and angst concentrated into a rolling ball of bleak shock and refusal to believe, which was quickly countered by a burdened reasoning that told me straight I had to believe and I had to accept.

            Gentle understanding hands had begun to glide across my arched back and I realised without caring that I was on my knees, staring tearfully into the copper alloy of a magnificent water fountain in one of the innermost town's many overflowing centres.  

            "Shall I ask Hoshi to run another scan Sir?"

Malcolm's voice had been comforting, it was comforting to hear another throat torn with grief, but his suggestion only seared me.

            "No.  Let her know we're coming back up, and tell Travis to prepare to break orbit."

My shoulders shook violently as I said it, admitted it, and tears void of shame had started to abuse my scorched eyes but I knew it had to be done, and so did Malcolm and Trip.

            It was in slowly rising next though, standing back up onto my exhausted burnt feet and taking one last detestable look over the serpent headed horse statute before me, that I watched the end of my heartbreaking search stumble into a shadowed alley, flanked, or more so carried by five burly slight-purple skinned beings.

Neither Malcolm nor Trip saw it.  Their own dry bleak eyes were trained on my filthy back, the back that took off with the rest of my heat stroked body in a flash of adrenaline, no hesitations or doubts ever daring to cross my determined mind as I instantly adopted a ferocious chase.

            The road to that narrow spidery alleyway, hurdled by a teaming mass of purple skinned shoppers, workers and general wonderers had never stretched so long in the five or six times I had paced it in vain hope.  I lost Trip and Malcolm but at the speed I suddenly acquired it was no difficult task to accomplish.

I angered and agitated the crowds as I discarded their shopping from their hands and their balance from their stances.  I was slain with fingered points of accusation and dirty narrow stares and loud obnoxious exclamations, but I was only aware of this because my two crewmen had watched it all with awe-filled aghast and silent confusion, later telling me how I had been greeted down the street in sickbay.  

            I could not run forever only because the dusty roads and scarred pavements could not hold before me an endless path.  My speed was already breakneck but the pitiful chocks of protest I heard as I closed in dangerously fast on my destination forced my wild feet to thunder on quicker until I reached the end and discovered my impulse was horribly justified. 

            T'Pol was not dead, although in the second I discovered her I would have shot her myself to take her out of the hellish state she was now in.

There was no gallant rescue here.  I shot two of the five aliens, who in human terms would have bordered closely on their early thirties.  As their dead weights fell on my phase pistol the remaining three scattered as cowards would in the playground as soon as they had realised they had cornered off the little sister of the biggest boy in school.

            Right now T'Pol was my kid sister, the one I had always wanted, always begged and pestered my parents for but disappointingly never got; she was my little cousin Jess, who had never learnt to defend herself in any way; she was my most beloved and treasured, lost and found and perhaps lost again.  She was my kin, as close to me as Trip was and my father had been.  What hurt her beat me in conjunction, with the full brunt of the merciless sting directed straight at my bleeding heart.

            A crowd laden with curiosity had begun to breed just outside the alleyway.  I saw a hundred pairs of crimson, hazel and olive eyes blink stupidly in at me, then widen and narrow in waves as they laid their prejudice sights on the torn points of T'Pol's battered and swollen ears.  Not soon after they were gone.  Trip and Malcolm came up in a rush of red cheeks and breathless chests, nonetheless parting and diminishing the swarms with their phase pistols out for all to see.  There was no leeway in their eyes – if we were stopped from leaving then they would let themselves loose without remorse.

            I just knelt and started pointlessly at her for a while.  Five years previous to this if I had discovered the very same sight I would have been shocked, outraged and no more.  She would have been the Vulcan I had known for a total of five minutes and despised for every second of that, but also appreciated that she didn't deserve the beating she had taken just for being born into the race she was. 

            Suddenly I jerked sharply in the drenched tangle of sheets I shared with my dog that night.  I could not emerge from the heap of memories, not for every inch of struggle and protest I put in to escape, and so across the soul I was struck again now as I had been with that same poisoned sting when I had found T'Pol then.

            Trip and Malcolm continued to keep the hate ridden sea at bay as I took her in my arms and carried the defeated body away, a body that felt of almost nothing but a burden of pain and injustice, back to the shuttlepod.  

            We could have opened fire on that planet, planted our phase canons in their cracked and barren desert grounds, mirrored the damage that had been done unto my loyal second-in-command on their men, woman and children, on their rich and poor, on Kreenal and her own family.  They had done this not for a ransom, not for the expenses that our ship could offer them, not even for the values that hung over T'Pol's head, and how much I would have paid for her back, but for sport, for pride, for hate and for fun.

I hadn't the mind to do it though, I had myself focused on only one thing, and it was not petty revenge.

            It took Phlox nothing short of three agonizing hours to compile a full and comprehensive list of injuries.  Every one of them that he solemnly reported back to me I numbed to, as I stood at the bedside of my Sub Commander silent and motionless, holding her sallow hand.

They, whoever 'they' five had been, and probably with others more, had broken both her ankles first, most likely so she could not run from them.  Phlox assured me that this is what they had done first, that gauged with her many other injuries these were the oldest. 

She had been shot too, several times by phase pistols similar to ours, just not ones as powerful.  Her shoulders and torso were littered with small second-degree burns.

Her ears had been shredded and this is where the most fun had been had.  Down the middle of each handsomely pointed tip was now a schism; in effect she had four points between the two ears.  They had vomited a steady rich flow of her green Vulcan blood all over my dusty chest, where her head had rested after I was sure she knew she was in my arms and not theirs. 

That same blood that I could see clearly in my vivid landscape of a dream was still on my chest, still drenched through in the same filthy clothes that I had donned for nearly three days now.  Returning back to my quarters was quite simply out of the question, being selfish enough to cater for my own needs at this moment in time was unthinkable.  It was a sin and I intended not to go to hell for it.

            The doctor never argued with me, but the flatness of his often alluring and brilliant blue eyes warned me that broken ankles and severed ears were hardly the worst of it.  Those blue eyes became a very real part of the memory as well, almost as if they watched over me now were I lay trapped in my bed and in my past, acting as another painful reminder of what had happened.

            "I'm afraid… she's been poisoned Captain, and quite fatally."

I must have reacted in some way, I just don't remember how.  

Trip claimed that he had walked in at that moment, and in my dreams I did see him.  I saw him for an all too brief second clad with a stalwart face and strong confident eyes that were there to grasp onto mines and assure me of the health of my first officer, that the word 'poisoned' in this case meant nothing more than being a little queasy with her food for the next few days, and that Phlox had not said 'fatally', instead I had just imagined the worst.  But when his hand came down on my tense shoulder blades that façade broke and he could offer me no real reassurance at all.  Although he was still something of a comfort, as Malcolm had been with his strained voice.

            It was in this dire moment that the reason for why I was being made to relive this temporary hell through these long and crudely detailed flashbacks became glaringly obvious and an ease of clarity took a wash over my hot brow where my dog's maw was now at rest.

            Suddenly I was gone from my Sub Commander's side and I was instead in the cool of my serene quarters, taken here on the advice from Phlox that "Someone should probably contact her family."

            That strange bemusement was back, the same one that had swept through me as I had watched T'Pol sleep in my car, and when I had seen her cry over a body she hadn't remembered killing, when she had shouted at me and when she had smiled once when she hadn't thought I was watching.

            The thought of T'Pol with family had never once crossed my mind.  She had only ever mentioned them with bitter secrete remorse over a dinner once, when she stated that they and the High Command would no longer recognize her as one of them.  I didn't know what they consisted of; mother, father, siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles; I had limited experience in Vulcan sociology and family lattices.  I hadn't the imagination to sight T'Pol with a brother or sister in my head, or even a father or a mother.  I hardly even perceived her as a Vulcan anymore, certainly not a stereotypical member of the species I had adapted myself to hate and spite so much before.

            For hours I simply stood.  There had been many occasions during my time on Enterprise when I had simply stood in front of my comm., listening to Admiral Forrest's appraisals and chides, composing solemn or proud speeches, shouting and smiling, laughing and on a rare time crying.  And for hours now I had stood and paced, seeking out a passage of contact back to T'Pol's family, to warn them of her uncertain future in living.  

Very few Vulcans, in hearing the 'rebel's' name were willing to aid me, and the search quickly became a test of patience.  I could feel chilling frustrations and nerves coursing through my veins, constantly pouring over my persistent headaches as my white fists twitched and my throat fought relentlessly with me to bombard the next Vulcan who cut me off with abuse and hellish curses.

            It was Admiral Forrest who salvaged my situation.

            "Jon the Vulcans are growing bitty with you again, what've you done this time?"

There was a slight smile there that shouldn't have been on his lips, but when I turned with my matted gaze and dry voice it quickly diminished.  

For some reason I remember all of that conversation, where I barely remembered any other conversation from those anguished days.

            "I need to contact Sub Commander T'Pol's family."

A thoughtful silence cloaked us for a brief second.

            "Why?"

            "There's been an attack.  She's in a pretty bad shape.  The doctor's not sure how she's going to be."

I was revealing the truth to myself as I did curtly to him, one I had continued to deny myself despite the constant counter with reason and logical conclusions in my battling conscience.

            "I'm sorry to hear that Jon, I really am, but they won't want to see her."           

            "Well I'll talk to them then."   

            "Do you really think you'll have any more luck than she would?"

            "I'll damn well try."

I saw my own eyes then, and they took me aback as they did the Admiral.  They were narrow and dark, no longer splashed with fatigue and grief but brimmed with a cold stubbornness that without question would see I had my way.

            An hour later I locked those same stern eyes onto T'Pol's father.   

I was confronted by an arrogant, self-centered, narrow mined specimen of the species and I wagered all this simply from the icy, unflinching center of his placid grey eyes.  He hadn't offered me a word yet and already I despised him.  Although if I were being honest with myself this is almost parallel to how I felt about T'Pol when she had first crossed my midst. 

            I began an awkward haul of banter.

            "I'm afraid, there's no easy way to say this Sir, but your daughter's… she's been badly injured in an attack that was labored by prejudice from the Salan people.  My doctor's doing the best he can with her right now but there's no certainty that she'll pull through her injuries.  I thought it best if I told you this myself as her Captain and her friend, and send my condolences to you as well."

            We shared a long stroke of silence and that silence echoed in my sleep as I waited apprehensively for his answer just as I had two years ago.  And again it was both the answer I had expected and one that rewarded me with unexpected painful shock at the same time.

            "I have no daughter."

The link died without my consent. 

            T'Pol, inevitably, lived after a long and uncertain week in sickbay.  Next to none of that week was relived itself in my sleep although I do remember on my own accord how wholly difficult and horrendous the past six and a half days had been.

Trip became something of a veteran Captain by the end of it through the amount of times I left him in charge when the bridge was quiet and my services not compulsory.  He would most probably have enjoyed it too, had it not been for the reason why I was leaving him in command so often.

            Never once did Phlox ask me to leave his sickbay and his patient, and the quality of understanding was more abundant in him than I had originally thought.  His optimism too was far more resilient than it had ever been or I had ever seen it before.  In effect traces of it rubbed off on me, and these were the times I smiled wryly and hoped.

            I had shed my now characteristically shameless tears when she finally came to.  Her cool hand had responded to the touch of mines, her fingertips twitching stiffly and her smooth flawless palm curling to grasp around mines as she took a desperate gasp of air, as if this whole time she had delved deep under the water of her subconscious and was unable to resurface until now.

            "Captain… you're crying."

Although barely audible I allowed those first three words to bounce joyously through my head for hours to come.

            "I don't understand why…"

            With a start I finally woke up into blissful consciousness.  Even though I had desperately desired to wake for the better part of three hours though I willingly allowed the last of the horrific trauma, its final valiant last acts, to play out in my dazed and heated mind.

            "You spoke to my father?"

            "I had to try.  A week ago you almost weren't here with us anymore.  Anyone's family deserves to know about the possible death of one of their own."

            "And what did he say? … Captain, please, what did he say?"

            "That… he had no daughter."

            "… I, would have expected that, but thank you, anyway."

            I received a delayed letter from T'Pol's mother the day after her recovery.  It was short, but it was all I had wanted to hear from her family.

_            Captain Archer_

_                        "I am most regretful to hear of my daughter's current condition and would be grateful if you could keep me as well informed as possible on her progress."_

_                                                                                                Appreciated_

_                                                                                                            T'Chall._

            I debated for hours with myself on whether to enlighten T'Pol on this.  She had at least another two days left designated by Phlox to remain in sickbay, but otherwise would be perfectly fine after everything she had been dragged and driven through.  In the end I replied, but never revealed to her her mother's simple letter.

_T'Chall_

_            "I'm pleased to reply that T'Pol will be fine.  She will have make a full recovery in approximately two days where she will return carrying on her valued work and duties on our ship._

_You have a most wonderful daughter Ma'am, and life on the Enterprise would never have remained the same without her.  I only wish the circumstances of her status with your people was better."_

_                                                                                    Yours sincerely_

_                                                                                                Jonathan Archer._

            With a heavy sigh I returned back to a dreamless sleep for the rest of the fresh early morning, trying my best but failing miserably to once again forget what I had remembered.

~. ~. ~. ~. ~. ~. ~.

Chapter Three later…


	3. The Morning After

_AN:  _Again another surprising response and again in the best possible sense.  Every one of your reviews is appreciated more than any of you probably know so I'm going to honestly thank you for them all.  

I apologise for typos etc, there's always gonna be some in my stories, I can't seem to help but have at least a couple floating about. If I remember I'll try fix them.

On another note entirely I came to realise that my Higher English exam is on the 12th of May.  You can maybe imagine that I freaked.  So until then, before I go on study leave, updates will be rare, because studying will be mounting.  Sorry, but that's just the way it is.  I will not stop those who want to shoot the system, cause I'm gonna have a go myself.

_~Telaka~_

~. ~. ~. ~. ~. ~. ~.

A snippet of the quaint sun soaked morning that followed the giddy rush of last night's wild and head-splitting activities cut silently through a slim crack in a shield of heavy clean white blinds.  The slim trail of placid yellow light, nothing more than a flitting string of the outside world, managed with great success despite its size to peel open a pair of exhausted red eyes that still, even in such a late morning hour, longed to close over and sleep again, far into the cool afternoon that was to come.

A wash of panic kept him awake however.  Without heed an aching chill ran down Malcolm's back as he came to realise he had no realisation of where he was.  He hastily threw off from his stiff body a foreign green dyed blanket and rose warily from a strange, extraordinarily soft, black leather couch.  These though offered no rush of memories to his blissfully light-headed mind.  

It was eventually the smell of breakfast that saved him.  Bacon drowned mercilessly in thick oil, coffee turned as black as it would go, burnt crumbling toast and shrivelled mushrooms all for some unaccountable reason brought him calmly to remember that he was back at Trip's chic, modern tainted apartment – a structure that was a far cry from Jonathan's aged home.  The Southern accent that rose above the sound of spattering oil and an angry frying pan confirmed it and Malcolm slowly nodded in his relief to the living room around him and the couch he was on that sat along the side of a silvery floorboard base.

            "Bacon and toast alright for y' Malcolm?"

The blond topped head of a somewhat harassed looking Trip suddenly appeared from a glass doorway behind Malcolm with the angry frying pan in one reddened fist and a wickedly bladed carving knife in the other.

            "Are you sure that's necessary?"

With a smile that fought not to be too patronising, as Trip was the one with the strained eyes and knife, Malcolm nodded to his tight hold on the black handle of the kitchen weapon and Trip followed his gaze with a scowl of personal contempt towards the plastic and steel.

            "Look, ah'm doin' the best ah can.  Ah haven't cooked for seven years, ah couldn't cook seven years ago anyway, an' the bacon decided it wouldn't cut with just a damn ordinary butter knife.  It cuts with _this_," he nodded viciously to the glinting blade,  "so ah'm stickin' with it."

Malcolm could not argue, although the truth was more that he (as any sane man would) did not want to argue.

            "Would you like a hand?"

Trip nodded, assuming the offer anyway.  "Wouldn't mind mate."

            It was not a successful gourmet morning.  It could never have been a successful gourmet morning because for all of what these two men possessed in highly complex skills with engines and weapons they did not posses the talent, and more dominantly the patients with frying pans and each other to make an edible breakfast.  Their salvation from starvation instead came from a homely coffee shop one and a half blocks down.

"Ah still don't understand how ya could see the damn soap powder as salt Malcolm.  The damn soap flakes are too damn big to be damn salt grains.  Aint you ever touched on the art of cookin' before?"

The argument had managed with languished ease to carry on over lightly toasted bagels and creamy black coffee.

            "You patronise me over the soap powder?  Were you never told that you couldn't cook bacon in washing-up liquid?  Or have you always preferred it that way?" 

Needless to say many curious and bemused stares hurdled their way across tables and chairs to reach the sleek silver barstool that camped along a landscape window where Malcolm and Trip chose to sit for the rest of the morning that was still to arrive.  

Despite the spitting of insults and chides they were much the content friends to be together, rather than by themselves as was destined if they returned to their own homes separately.  Neither seemed quite ready to face, at least not alone, the harrowing fact that their sailing days on the Enterprise had retired to days instead spent on the solid gravitational pull of Earth.  

Most painfully though, Trip was not ready to face the proof of his sister's decease, which had been dug not anything less than another three blocks away.

            "Ah was thinkin' of goin' today."

From a fascinating swirl of thick, calorie-laden cream swimming uncontrollably in the epicentre of his rich ebony coffee Malcolm quickly sprung his clear gaze forward then left to Trip, in which he uttered a quiet "Hmm?" and ashamedly admitted he hadn't quite been listening.  Trip tried on him an irritated sigh, but it was easy to tell when Trip was genuinely irritated, and now was not one of those many, many times, so Malcolm simply smiled his way through an apology, before repeating his "Hmm?"

            "Ah said…" there was a hesitation and Malcolm guessed correctly what was to come,  "ah was thinkin', thinkin' of goin' to the," Trip's neck all of a sudden appeared to develop a nasty itch and he scratched the nape with light fever as his gaze grew restless and jumpy, with his voice evaporating in volume slightly  "goin' to the cemetery, this afternoon.  Y' know, it's been five years, an' now that ah'm here," the itch spread to his elbows, "well ah can't put it off anymore."

With a pale flush across his hot cheeks he finally fell silent and stared pointlessly forward and beyond the window at the grey pavement along the rushing street outside. 

            "Put it off?"

Shame quickly snaked across his downcast blue eyes as his thumbs battled relentlessly with each other and his feet scuffed the white lino floor below.  He shrugged but it was a silent 'yes' they emitted.  On a heavy sigh he then spoke to the waiting Lieutenant.

            "It's hard, y' know.  Ah was so vamped up on gettin' some revenge for maself off the Xindi that… ah almost seemed to forget why ah was doin' it.  Ah kinda 'forgot' Lizzie was dead.  An' then it hit me a few years back an'… ah was scared to go see the one thing that be able to prove it to me again.  So ah never went to the grave, ah just sent some photos down with ma regards and carried on runnin' about with the Enterprise, just bein' ma happy Southern self.  An' ah even forgot a few times again, 'cause ah knew ah'd never have t' go down an' see that damn grave, but now," he laughed weakly, "now ah've ran out of excuses to pretend she's still hopin' about behind me, tauntin' and laughin' at me with every damn step ah take."  He swallowed with great effort.  "So, ah gotta say goodbye now."

Malcolm thought he was going to get to see Trip cry, but either pride or numbness kept any shed of salty water back from his orbs as he once again faced his company and smiled a sweet, sad smile.

            "So, y' comin'?"

Although tempted to both laugh and state 'do you even need to ask Commander?' Malcolm simply copied the sweet, sad smile and nodded full heartedly, with utter unquestionable sympathy. 

            "Of course."

~. ~. ~. ~. ~. ~. ~.

The morning brought on its wake, not just the private, tender moment between Trip and Malcolm but also a tuneless whistle to the front door of Jonathan's settlement and then from a rusty singing voice the murder of an ancient song.

_"Oh suicide is painless"_

Very slightly T'Pol cringed.

_" It brings on many changes"_

She found temptation urging her frantically to block her sensitive ears.

_"An' ah can take or leave them if ah please_"

As the '_please'_ was dragged out and slaughtered mercilessly by a blissful screech from the very depth of the accusing throat the Vulcan's head warily perked up from its position craned over one of Jonathan's many prized books.  She eyed the door carefully from where behind it the source of the blatant noise came then sat back slightly on the cream woven couch as the entrance swung slowly open.

            _"Yeah suicide is –" _suddenly there was an amazing silence, and then a wary,  "Oh.  Hello…"

A pair of cool grey eyes met T'Pol's docile brown ones, cocked to the side slightly as they absorbed the sitting sight of her, and then as they darted to the side of her face to catch an all too brief glimpse of the top of one pointed ear behind a head of neat auburn hair, narrowed slightly and the body they belonged to tensed slightly more still.

            "A Vulcan?"

T'Pol stood, but not to lean forward in greeting.  She found herself confronted by the same manner of distaste and revolt in this stranger's eyes as she had seen in a hundred humans' eyes before him, and tens of alien races before that.

            "You'd better have a damn good reason for –"

            "Richard?"

Both sets of unflinching orbs turned gracefully together on a third body, who stumbled and squinted in the fresh yellow light of the living room.  The grey-eyed man instantly lost interest in T'Pol as Jonathan's face morphed into a dazzlingly wide smile as he greeted him and step forward to embrace the emerged stranger, allegedly called 'Richard', full heartedly. 

            "Been a while, no?"

After taking the blow of a hearty pat on the back with a spade for a palm Jonathan pulled away and took in the refreshing sight of his younger cousin Richard.

            "You don't tend to change much do you?"

For the compliment Jonathan received another brisk slap on the shoulder this time and Richard in turn sighed deeply, continuing to indulge in a toothy grin and constant shaking of his bemused head, as if denying himself the reality of Jonathan's physical presence.

"I wasn't expecting you back so soon.  Figured you and your explorer buddies would be hosting a sleepover back at Starfleet or something."  On that note Richard then turned his sights back to T'Pol and Jonathan with him.  "However…" T'Pol was tempted to frown, but simply didn't.  "And again I say, hello…"

The distaste was back, but only lingering quietly in his eyes and loose twitching fists, lying low, and only intentionally showing for the Vulcan to see.  Jonathan either hadn't noticed or chose dutifully to ignore it, but his introduction was nonetheless cheerful and unaware.

            "Richard, this is my former Sub Commander, T'Pol.  And T'Pol, this is my kid cousin Richard."

After a brief silent second of intense scrutinizing stares Richard's only response in the end was, "My dad's on his way up Jon, with more groceries."

Jonathan promptly bit his lower lip gingerly and smiled nervously, although it was a weak, ill smile as a flicker of uncertainty emitted across his thoughtful eyes.

            "If my presence is no longer welcome here Sir, then perhaps I should leave you and –"

            "No, T'Pol, it's alright.  It's just..." he hesitated, then frowned then realized the obvious – that he was in his own home.  T'Pol on his consent had every unquestionable right to be here with him.  So he spoke with the authority that had been trained into his voice.  "Richard's dad, my Uncle Edwyn, he was my dad's brother, older brother.  He's, not entirely keen on the Vulcans, for the same reason as I was, but he's just going to have to deal –"

            "Jon," there was a smear of light laughter in Richard's amused voice,  "You know fine well your friend here isn't gonna stand in good steed with my dad, at all. Heaven help her even if Uncle Paul's to come across her as well. "

The idea seemed to humour Richard in some way, with the corners of his mouth fighting not to rise as he continued to eye T'Pol cagily.  "Cause you _know _he'd be to the Vulcans what Hitler was to the Jews, if he could."

T'Pol's brow in response was high, although her gaze annoyingly flat and directed at Jonathan in the next gliding turn of her head.

            "Perhaps I _should_ leave, considering the history I have read on this said Hitler…"

Jonathan frowned, he closely came to scowling with wicked venom, but his own dark brow was focused solely on Richard, even though he addressed T'Pol.  "Please, T'Pol.  No one has to leave, you're here on _my _invite and Edwyn and Paul are just going to have to…" He eventually had to trail off.

The handsome oak door that had been left lingering ajar swung open violently on its hinges again as a man of greying features with paper bags of milk and fruit sauntered casually in, his own even grey eyes bright, inquisitive and without hesitation as soon as he sighted her, locked aggressively on T'Pol.

            "A Vulcan?  Jonny what have those years in space done to you?"

T'Pol's curious brow was beginning quietly to deflate and a look of quiet dejection - mirroring the one she had worn in realizing her kind and kin were not there to greet her back at Starfleet - trickled slowly into her downcast eyes.  Jonathan took a stance in front of her, protectively. 

            "Good to see you too Uncle Edwyn."  Every inch of the politeness in his voice was forced.   "Now how about a genuine friendly hello from you to my formed Sub Commander T'Pol?"

The thought appeared to disgust the elder man, and he made no subtle attempt to burry the more generous amount of distaste he seemed to hold for the Vulcan race.  Breath was drawn in his throat to prepare a counter to his nephew, or more so to T'Pol, when a sweet Northern accent strolled through the doorway, the body it drifted from soon following in airily. 

            "Edwyn dear, you forgot the chops – Oh my…"

T'Pol had begun to appreciate the reason that forwarded the dread that so often came with the infamous act of 'meeting the in-laws'.  Jonathan was beginning to appreciate how unjust he had once been to the Vulcan kind, and Richard, now shamelessly smirking in much the fashion a rogue eleven year old would, came to appreciate the bringing of the raw, bloody pork chops.  He was fully aware of the side fact that all Vulcans were strict vegetarians and caught heed of the quiet distaste in T'Pol's eyes as the pink meet was laid with a sickening _thud_ on the counter.

            It quickly no longer became a novel amusement to Jonathan to have the relatives over, even after such a stretch without laying his sight on their familiar faces; his mood towards them turning as hostile as theirs quietly was for T'Pol.  Through tight-gritted teeth he uttered a short 'Hello Angela' but made it clear in his dark curt nod that unless they began to spill warm welcoming smiles and hearty hand shakes with his guest they would not be staying for very much longer.  And although they seemed to be expecting it, he would be making no excuses for them, and no fool of T'Pol.

            "You know, I just got up,"

He finally prompted with his softly grinding teeth the door to them with a cause to call a sudden leave of absence, and neither one of the trio seemed too upset to take it as they realized with expected shock that the Vulcan's presence was prevailing over their own,

            " And I have a lot of work to do at Starfleet later,"

A series of bitter 'of courses' and 'sure thing Jon' hailed from their unsettling smiles as they slowly began to take leave, stamping into his carpet perhaps the shortest, most awkward visit Jonathan had had to this small apartment yet,

            "Perhaps another time?"  His hazel gaze quickly met T'Pol's; "Maybe we'll make it to dinner next week,"

            She was acutely aware that he was humouring them, as he had done with her so many times before.  Still though they nodded and carried on smiling and blindly agreeing until the split moment they were gone.  The thick twisted tension thereafter quickly slipped away under the crack of the door with them.

            Jonathan turned in one fluid twist, with baskets of apologies teetering ready over his lips, back to his guest who stood tucking neatly behind one ear a snippet of shimmering auburn hair.  When the snippet was curtained back he laid his sights on the ear that had been below, and words left him for a long chilling moment.  

            He had never been entirely sure, for he did not keep records on T'Pol's appearance, on whether she had deliberately grown her hair to the length it was now - just above her shoulders - after the attack on Salan or not - that at that time she had simply gotten the notion to grow her hair a little more, or that she was hiding the lasting reminders of those days.  

It was of enough length now to covers her ears with no great difficulty.  The two had always remained heavily scarred after that attack, and since her hair had grown in, they were rarely ever in plain sight.  

There wasn't a time when she did show her ears on those infrequent occasions that Jonathan didn't inwardly curl to see the indents of silvery white along the sensitive olive rims and the tiny permanent tears at the utmost tips of the delicate ears that in effect gave her four points.  It was the delicacy of the skin and structure, Phlox had patiently explained during one of the days where Jonathan had contently watched T'Pol sleep off her ordeal, that made them impossible to heal without some lasting damage – in her case deep, numb scars.

            Today, as sometimes they did, they made him feel a drowning wash of guilt.  His family for the most part were to blame for the seer of the emotion right now, but memories of that event and so many others surrounding it made him feel in debt to the Vulcan, in depth to such a level that he could never fully pay her back just to make up for the apparent jerk he had been on countless headstrong occasion before.

            He hadn't meant to stare but he had and quickly with a graceful few flicks of her slim fingertips she covered the ear again.

            "It seems the family... did not like me."

His head fell as he smiled sadly, smiled with painted remorse, and laughed bitingly at the door.  His hands lay neatly on his hips and he sighed fiercely through his nose.  Finally, still lacking a vocal response he took his hand to his nose and rubbed it gently, before massaging his cheeks and eventually facing T'Pol once again.

            "No, no they don't."  Another more challenging smile entered his thin lips and jumpy eyes.   "And if you take any of it to heart, well…" Porthos had sauntered in through the bedroom to the kitchen, seeking out his late breakfast,  "you'll be sleeping with him tonight."

Her eyebrow rose to question the bizarre threat silently.  He seemed set on the idea.  With a frank nod he smirked at her subtle expression.

"That's an order Sub Commander."

~. ~. ~. ~. ~. ~. ~.

Starfleet's main building on a regular day boasted a level of noise far surpassed any office building or child infested household in the entire stretch of America.  Yet it had several odd corners to itself that presented an entirely different front – a cool, calm and serene few corridors that were lined with doors that led off to cosy bunks and familiar quarters and one magnificent spectrum of a library.  Rare few were in the library, or the bunks, come the eve of this morning however.

Even these quiet corridors seemed still to ring clear with the giddy echoes of party attendees and their frantic larking across the skid marked dance floor and sturdy tables of the untamed but priceless affair that had been all of last night and a generous fraction of the morning.  The ringing for the most part came from delicate battered eardrums that had only just managed to scavenge their way through the night.  Hangovers contributed to the constant hum and agitated mumbles from those who hadn't a clue what they were uttering topped off the aftermath of music and screams from the party.

            Two faces familiar to each other contributed greatly to this band of the regretful drinkers.  Despite facing each other close to every day for the past seven years however, when their shoulder's collided on a trip down and back from the community bathroom of the corridor they could only mumble a curt sorry to who they each thought was a perfect stranger before they carried on.  It took several heavy footsteps on each person's account before their dizzy, fumbling minds cottoned on, and they stopped and turned together in perfect synch.

Amazingly despite a constant bombardment of sharp jabs and throbbing hammers in every moving muscle of their bodies they each managed a genuinely pleased smile as they reunited again where their shoulders had met.

            "Hoshi, are you hung over?"

It seemed Travis couldn't help himself and his characteristically charismatic smile teased the young red-eyed woman in the gentlest sense as she too accused a grin at him.

            "I don't need to answer that," she nodded to the young Helm's officer's forehead, "not to you anyway.  When did you get that done?"

Whatever 'that' was, was apparently new to Travis and without another word he made for where Hoshi had just left, the bathroom, attempting a run but only managing a half-hearted limping trot.  He would quick enough discover the object of attraction though.

In the time it took him to hobble to the bathroom, to rub the bleariness out of his eyes and to fully comprehend what was on his forehead Hoshi had come to realise that she was the one who had possessed the black marker eight hours ago and the one who had found a great deal of unreasonable humour in writing _'Captain Travis'_ in her elegant but for that night shaky handwriting, as way of boasting the ambitious future they both saw ahead for themselves.  Those bold dreams, however, seemed painfully far away with a cup of welcoming coffee at the moment.

            Travis returned from the bathroom, taking a walk back towards Hoshi, his lungs apparently exhausted from his little outburst of energy.  There seemed to be anger flaring up in his rich brown eyes but the next second it was diminished with a wave of a smile over his dark lips.  He passed Hoshi without stopping, only shrugging.

            "I can live with that."

Before he had completely disappeared down the corridor though he quickly called over his slouched shoulder, "Meet me in the mess hall in half an hour, okay?"

He didn't turn back round but he knew she had nodded wholly to the request.

Pitiful little of the lulling silence that evoked the halls of the sleeping quarters carried on through to Travis and Hoshi's meeting place that was the vast expanse known as the mess hall of Starfleet.  Vast could however be considered as something of an insulting understatement as the place was almost beyond words in terms of it size for a dinning hall.  Every inch of this phenomenon though, to justify the ridiculous area of immaculate white lino it covered, seemed worth its value as the place teamed with the hungry and this morning the hung over.

            To the couple who stumbled in half an hour after their reunion it was closely like returning back to an estranged part of their home – a loved part that offered more to them than just Starfleet's finest meals.  

Memories of rookie days spent with fellow Helms and comm. officers competing and learning and generally participating in the best years of their late childhood and fresh adulthood years came back with the familiar giddy rush of cooking food and excited babble that marked a stamp of character of the place.  

Flirting and studying, recovering from vicious exams and preparing for worse to come while still managing to laugh at the whole affair and waste hours of free time simply with their feet draped over tables and arms around each other, all in one happy jumble rolled over their minds and they realised what they had forgotten they missed the most – their first training years at Starfleet.

            "It's like we never left."

Travis was off on that whimsical note and Hoshi quickly stepped behind his heal as they headed to where the scent of strong reviving caffeine drifted from, beckoning as an irresistible painkiller to what was a regretfully wild and utterly unforgettable night.  During their short trek they did not go unnoticed.

Of the half a thousand so that roamed through these walls of breakfast and chatter, every so often a member of the Enterprise would be standing, never alone and never in a small crowd.  Eyes that lit up fiercely with admiration and smiles that had lost control, or jaws that went slack and whispered what they could not believe flanked them all as the individuals seemed without modesty or lack of detail to recall to the young and learning what wonders, horrors and legends they had happened to come cross in the endless regions of velvety black space.  Although doubtful of it Travis almost swore to Hoshi he had witnessed an autographed napkin pass from a young Ensign to a younger still girl, a first year engineer.

            Still undecided on the surrealism of these shows Hoshi and Travis took their coffees and their cereal quickly and found, much to each of their surprise, a quiet uninhabited corner where they could bask in cool shadows and hear each other without accelerating their voices.   

            "I think we're celebrities."

Travis, his mouth locked closed with frozen milk and sharp crispy cornflakes nodded vigorously in agreement, smiling slightly before milk began a random dribble down his chin.  He swallowed and nodded again.

            "Are you surprised?"

Hoshi had to think for a second through the comforting steam of her creamy coffee and in the end had to admit that yes she was.  Travis seemed to enjoy with great content watching each crewmember's fifteen minutes of fame.  Hoshi was characteristically wary.

            "You'll learn to love it."

She fought not to choke slightly as she caught sight of Travis's wide, excited eyes bouncing from one jittery crowd to another, calculating the activities of each fan and each celebrity and what they had to say and do for themselves.  He seemed to be waiting even for his turn and with much shameless anxiety and passion.  

His, and her moment came very quickly.

            A young smartly painted, promising looking Helm's officer caught sight with his wistful pale green eyes the casually clothed figure of Travis with his breakfast and his partner.  It escalated from there.

Travis uttered one cheery statement to a bemused Hoshi before the trainee with many behind him made it to their corner terrain.

            "Just remember, you'll always be the first comm. officer that ever made it through the Expanse and you'll never be allowed to forget it."

~. ~. ~. ~. ~. ~. ~.

So, like I said, updates may be rare but I'll try my best to have the next part up a.s.a.p…


	4. Contemplations

_A.N:  _Would you look at that, I got another chapter done.  Yey for me I suppose.  Exam's are on the 14th, not the 12th like I'd thought, but that's of insignificant value, it's still next week.

To answer a couple of queries.  Yes, we get to meet Uncle Paul.  Uncle Paul will most defiantly be stirring some feathers (or pointed tipped ears, probably both actually).  And no, I haven't forgotten about Phlox, I'll be working him in hopefully within the next chapter or so, but he won't be anything of a major character, not just right now anyway.

Anyway, onto Chapter Four.

. . . . . . .

For the most part the beautiful day that had erupted gracefully from a gorgeous morning was lost and wasted on me.  The handsome golden sun that reigned in full boast above, the flawless blue sky and the shapeless, satin clouds all had no effect on my quiet blue eyes as I stood on the spot I had secretly avoided for close to five years now.  

I had never fully understood why I had made such an extraordinary effort to stay securely clear of the ground that now chipped away below at my feet; I never fully comprehended the reason for why I had had no desire before to stand in front of the sleek black gravestone, except for I knew it would be proof of a death long since denied in my heart.  

I understood now though as I was dealt a chilling slap across the face, given without asking for it a proper confirmation.  It was a stark reminder of the truth and looking at this spot forced me to cover my ears to the blaring truth it voiced so effortlessly and what I had always been so deaf to - Elizabeth was dead, as simple as it was to stay the statement, she was dead.  And I hadn't fully allowed myself to ever believe that despite the number of times I had said goodbye to her - until now.

As the searing shock of what I should have already understood collided with my reeling mind I felt in my hand the collection of white roses and lilies that I had brought in mark of a regretful death slip.  Only a gentle nudge from my saving grace, Malcolm, stopped them from crushing in a pitiful mess on the concrete slab that I rested my wavering stance on.  I quickly gripped the bouquet tight once again and as a consequence felt the stern jab of a rose's thorn bite lustfully into my palm.  The sharp, obvious pain should have prompted me at least to have flickered in a protest of pain, but instead it did nothing more than draw a thin sliver of rich red blood from a beating vein without much of my concern or even notice to it.

I had to picture Lizzie now - even if I hadn't wanted to, her bright, optimistic gaze and full, fantastic smile wavered in and out of my memory's line of sight, without my consent or my protest.  I chose in the end, despite suffering a constant stamping on my heart, to hold onto what fun and laughter my mind had decided to conjure forth of her.

Nothing of a specific date or moment in time came back to me, it was all just a beautiful golden haze of vague and entirely fond pictures that evoked me, and as I read the golden words on her tombstone all of a sudden I suffered from blurry, salty vision.  It read:

_Elizabeth 'Lizzie' Tucker_

_Daughter and sister and friend to so many_

_You left too soon but we'll always love you_

_Us_

I hardly remember how I took it but Malcolm assured me with his familiar reassuring smile that I took it well and took it like a big brother should.  For a long time at least I knew I had stood and done nothing.  I had stood and although very little happened bodily my mind ran itself to emotional exhaustion.  For the entire forty-three minutes that I had apparently gazed longingly into the gravestone wishing for the impossible, for Lizzie to come back or for me to go to her, I didn't stop remembering and didn't stop paining until I had had enough.

I turned to Malcolm finally, who had gazed and stood in a long stationary silence as well.  His hair rustled quietly in the wind and that was all he dared to make in way of noise, except for his clothes, which struck out quiet, almost timid, tuneless notes along with his hair.  As my gaze fell on his downcast eyes he felt instinctively my watery pupils on his face and in respect locked his own dark blue gaze back onto mines.  

I wouldn't have survived this revolution without him, and he fine well knew it.  His smile was ruined slightly with a daring cheek, only provoked because I offered one first amongst my damp, red face.

"Ah have a fresh bottle of Kentucky Bourbon sittin' waitin' for us to make a couple o' long winded speeches, if yer up for it?"

The tilt of his brow seemed almost insulted that I even had to ask in a choked, smiling drawl.

"Guess that be a 'sure thing Commander' then."

. . . . . . .

Porthos had needed a walk.  The abstractness that pealed out of the concept for T'Pol made her contemplate it for longer than was necessary.  The fact that she contemplated the idea to begin with worried her - in a Vulcan sense of the concept of being worried - worried in that she contemplated the thought of 'taking out the dog' for what was a prolonged and unnecessary amount of time. 

Vulcan psychology had always been something of a weak point in her exceptionally smart mind; ironic because she seemed to posses something of a tight and crudely accurate grasp on the human condition.

            She had been rendered into a graceful silence as she strode along at a languid pace with Jonathan through uncharacteristically quiet streets and roads, the ageing beagle that was the reason for their outing only slightly ahead as his eager wet nose continued to stop him at every stained corner and muddy crevice along the route.

Jonathan had been thinking, then finally decided and declared that now would be a more than perfect time to talk about and establish some ground on T'Pol's almost immediate future, if nothing else than just to gain a much needed perspective on her muses and plans for the months ahead.  He assumed without much detailed contemplation that she would have drawn fourth a logical and attainable map for herself by now. 

            "I take it then that you've been thinking about what you want to do now that the mission's over."

T'Pol's silence became focused on Jonathan then instead of the dry, scuffed pavement in front of her as she turned with a clean, focused gaze directed slowly towards his fixed forward eyes.

            "Thinking, yes."

She offered him nothing more.

            Porthos halted on his stubby paws at a grotesque collection of wild, brown, choked ivy that accumulated along a dark brick wall and the couple overtook him for a second before he grew bored of its stale scent and trotted on ahead again.

            "Surely the High Command'll reconsider your position, or maybe even another placement for you, after all you've done.  They can't point-blank ignore you.  I'd call _that_ being irrational."  He smiled, and although it seemed T'Pol was tempted to join him she remained impartial in her expression.

A brief spark of the scepticism she had always felt for her future back at the High Command lit up in her calm ebony pupils though before she said quite flatly and decisively, "That is doubtful."

His brow quirked slightly as they turned a corner into yet another enigmatically still street with yet another empty road.  A fiercely protective instinct to again reassure T'Pol returned from its last appearance at the party and Jonathan smiled with a gently sympathetic wrinkle in his eyes.

            "Well, no great loss then I guess.  I imagine there's plenty of places on Vulcan that would offer you just as good a position in a heartbeat."

There seemed to be a distasteful smirk in T'Pol's next roll of words, smeared on every vowel and flat accent she uttered, but her face continued relentlessly to stay smooth and straight and her voice gracefully toned.

            "Actually, to earn the status I had at the High Command alone took me decades to acquire, and I strained through most of my life before Enterprise to gain it.  My childhood and many years of my early adulthood were devoted to the goal of making it into the High Command and I was… lucky, in a sense, that they decided to take on such a…" she hesitated for a second, reflecting on a past part of herself that she had never really cared to share with Jonathan before, mostly because when looking back at it now it seemed so insignificant, "bold candidate."  She carried on again without a mark of hesitation.  "What I did by staying on Enterprise has most likely destroyed any chance of me winning over once again such a high and valuable position.  There are plenty of others with as impressive a calibre as myself who have never given the High Command any reason to be wary of them, such as I have…" Finally, more pointedly she added, "I will have to choose a different path now as I see no point in wasting any time fighting with them for a lost position."

On her last more hushed note she trained her steady gaze once again ahead of her, unflinching and cool as if everything she had just uttered was of no great deal in any sense at all.  

Jonathan knew he should have been mad, mad as he had been back on Coridan when the High Command had found a scapegoat in T'Pol for P'Jem, mad to hear dejection in her voice and to witness the fall of status in her brought on solely from the ignorance of her people.  He should have been mad as he was at her father, at Sovol, even directly at her, but quite simply he wasn't.  He felt the wave of pity that had become commonplace in his emotions but he also fell on a surface of understanding and found he could really only nod to tell truthfully that he understood.  She acknowledged this in him with a single thankful nod of her own before she spoke again with slightly more volume, a Vulcan equivalent to enthusiasm.

            "I had considered staying in San Francisco."

This managed to provoke a more lively reaction in him.  

Atop the reaction sat a smile, a smile that longed to say so much, poke a little fun and overall to express feelings that he wasn't even sure about, couldn't name and didn't know what to make of.  

Ultimately he was quite happy - which showed without question as every inch of his facial features broke into a brilliant and somewhat ecstatic beam - after assuming for the months it had taken them to voyage back home she would be leaving for an overdue return back to Vulcan after they landed, most likely never to make the effort to cross his path again thereafter.  These at least had been the extremes he had pondered over and grown to despise beforehand.  

San Francisco however lay no more than two hours away from his small, homely apartment and there, in the relatively short distance, lay the beautiful opportunity for frequent visits and to be a general pest who could never quite leave her without a visit for any more than the space of several working weeks. 

            "Fell in love with the golden city then?"

T'Pol faced Jonathan briefly and elevated a sleek brown eyebrow.  "I did not, 'fall in love', with the city.  I have simply grown accustomed to the area."  She paused, it seemed, almost for dramatic effect and he felt himself hanging restlessly for a brief second.  

"I have also already spoken with several of the Universities there.  They seem quite interested and keen in take me on, if not a little… surprised, that I offered myself to their teaching staff."

He had always had mixed feelings about the gift she possessed to spring several revolutions at once on a person without so much as a metaphoric pause of the mind to allow a soak in of whatever chain of news in question was.  On this particular mountain of moments, although the gift rendered him into a dumb silence for a generous few minutes, he found the quality endearing.   He may even have risked a silly, brief hug, if not for the Vulcan Nerve Pinch that she was more than capable of holding as a very real threat against him and any expressions of close bodily contact he may have tried to articulate.  Once he had suffered it and once had been enough.

            "I…" 

Porthos darted around a corner as his owner stuttered, the beagle's curiosity dragging his old stumpy paws towards a new unseen scent, 

"Teaching?"  Jonathan lacked dangerously in any better response.  He recovered only a fraction with "Teaching _human_ students?  Well… wow." 

T'Pol failed in every sense to be able to share in Jonathan's bemusement, or even to see why he indulged in bemusement at all.  She would hardly be the first or the last of her kind to take up a position of teaching on Earth in a human schooling facility.  She remembered Trip and his long-suffering tales of angst about the lectures he had suffered under the rule of a Vulcan elder.  She felt Jonathan's blank face and slightly ajar lips deserved something of an explanation on her behalf though.

            "Teaching was always my first choice of profession.  However I became a science officer and starship Sub Commander under the order of my father, who with my superiors saw the potential in my intellectual supremacy to go on and work successfully with the High Command instead, as my father and my brothers had."

It all rolled gracefully off her tongue in the fashion of a well-prepared speech.  It rather astounded him in modest, quiet ways.

            "Now that these paths have collapsed I see no other more logical choice than to return to what I had sought out originally to be - a lecturer in other world Newtonian and Quantum physics."  

Her gift had continued to prevail.  It wasn't the physics that had successfully grabbed his acute attention however.

            "Brothers?"

T'Pol's lack of understanding over his bemusement continued to domineer.

            "Yes, I have two, both of which work with the High Command.  Why would that be of any interest to you Sir?"

Jonathan frowned but a dark smile took away any vicious edges of anger and only gave him a wavering annoyance in his expression. 

            "Jonathan, T'Pol.  My name is not Sir, and I'm not your Captain anymore, I'm just Jonathan.  How many times?"

            "Sorry…" she hesitated heavily on her tongue before quietly uttering as an afterthought, "Jonathan."

He nodded in slight satisfaction with a far more content, sunlit smile.  "You know I never pinned you as being a-"

He managed not to seize the chance to stress a 'sister' on his Vulcan companion before their ears were abused with a heart-wrenching yelp, a brutal, deep-throat snarl and a blood chilling, sky filling howl.

Although T'Pol's sensitive, delicately structured ears had never quite experienced firsthand anything akin to an Earth dog's howl before - Porthos never so much as even whimpering to her in the past - she assumed along with the clue that was Jonathan's dangerously paled cheeks that the sound was not, and could never be, a good one.  She paused on her toes but Jonathan was gone in a flurry of speed and frantic cries of his beloved dog's name before he dived neatly around the corner.  She hesitated for a second but wiped her confusion thoroughly clean before deftly taking off not a second after him.

            The scene around the accusing corner was barbaric.  It visibly startled T'Pol as she halted sharply on a dig from her heals into the cement ground to save herself from colliding messily with the wresting figure of Jonathan; a fury filled, unstoppable Jonathan.

It was a tan coated, black-jawed bulldog that had rendered Porthos and Jonathan into such a desperately frantic spirit.  T'Pol had never encountered a bulldog before and so to her it was simply a burly, slobbering, one colour coated version of Porthos, that had its brutal yellow dyed teeth and dirty brown glower locked onto the smaller elder dog's trembling hind leg, as he pathetically and worthlessly tried to drag himself away from the unwavering grip.  

Jonathan (T'Pol looked carefully and amongst his red raging frown and pale twisted mouth she thought she caught sight of a delicate silver tear) took his large rough hands to the bulldog's jaw without hesitation and played the foolish hero as he tried valiantly and idiotically to break free the skin tearing, blood shedding grip.  

The domineering dog happily let go to take a wide mouthed dig at Jonathan instead and successfully managed with ungainly ease to hook its treacherous canines into Starfleet's finest Captain's forearm.  

Porthos, before he could adopt his owner's reckless heroic acts, was grabbed and scooped up by T'Pol into her tight but tender embrace - a careful embrace that seemed to inaudibly tremble for the old dog's and the Captain's well beings alike.

            A sharp whistle broke the air.  T'Pol quickly restrained herself from a cringe and Jonathan swore gracelessly and shamelessly as the dog's ruthless clamp was released and its stout paws trotted obediently, if not somewhat reluctantly along the seemingly empty street and into the shallow bay of an apartment block.  It left behind without a sniff of a concern a thick pool of rich crimson blood and several artistic drops of saliva. 

            Not even the pain laden soft whimpers of Porthos, or the rare distress that had crept into T'Pol's whispered voice as she called his name could stop the wrath of Jonathan as he took up a storm of a walk toward where the dog had been called to by the faceless whistle.  T'Pol, Porthos tighter and closer still to her chest, followed cautiously at his marching heal.

            "What the **_hell_** was that?!"

Jonathan had found the owner of both whistle and dog.  A pale skinny boy dwelled in a languid state across three front door steps to a modern array of apartments, a sleek grey bundle of structures that towered over the assembly of dog holders.  

The boy, as Jonathan hollered at him much in the fashion he had become famous for, forced his bony shoulders up in a slow casual shrug with seemingly great effort before he took his bulldog's collar and held its slobbering panting form back.  The dog looked as uninterested and bored now as the young boy though, and holding it back seemed of no great effort to him.

            "Y' don't look like a Vulcan to me."

This was Jonathan's full comprehensive answer, until T'Pol stood sternly with Porthos in front of the accused couple.  The dog once again without even the space of a blink took up its vicious stance and an effort now had to be installed to restrain its brawny mass.

            "But then again, she does."  Although his pale shadowed face did not smile, the couple could feel it instinctively off the boy, and in response Jonathan's eyes narrowed to mirror the level of danger in the yapping dog's teeth.

            "You know how much animal control would love to take a dog like that?"

Jonathan cracked the boy's casual façade with his grounded comment and he as a consequence showed the Vulcan and the Captain that he was capable of more than just a secretive smile with his eyes widening in horror and emotional distress in the next second.

            "Hey, y' can't take her away, it was your stupid dog that stunk o' whatever Vulcan scent it was.  She was only doin' what she's been trained to do."

Jonathan reached for a sleek black cell from an ancient brown leather belt hooked around his waist, ignoring with much restrained the innuendo behind the boy's pleads.  

            "Hey, hey stop it now!"

The dog's temper swelled with her beloved owner's fear as she strained harder still against the tight grasp around her studded collar to get to T'Pol, who stood unflinching and unimpressed just beyond her jaw's line of reach.  And although the boy looked desperate, he would not call off the bundle of guarding energy, as every time he placed his horrified glare on T'Pol it narrowed and the very real risk of losing his dog seemed worth it for some inexplicable reason.

            Jonathan began to dial.  Porthos growled and struggled restlessly in T'Pol's ceaseless hold as he begged urgently with her to let him go, to let him serve and protect, as he had always been willing to do.  She was drenched in his sweet smelling blood, and the fresh scent came close to tempting her to show some form of distaste in some sort of manner across her face.

The scene quickly went from one extreme to another, for as Jonathan with his stubborn pride spoke confidently into his cell phone to animal control the boy too had to cave into his pride and let go of the dog with some suggestion of smugness in the glint of his hazel iris.  

The dog rejoiced as she tripped slightly in the sudden release around her neck, but also quickly in her freedom recovered her paw-fall and lunged without remorse, only simple pleasure, for T'Pol's vulnerably exposed ankle.  She met her target as well with much ease and hell spread its overjoyed fiery glory for the next minute in a tempest of swearing and barking and more calls from other throats as clarity was demanded and not met from the scene.

            _"Shit!"_

Jonathan hadn't even known he'd expressed the word as he dropped his cell phone and grabbed T'Pol as she dropped Porthos who landed with surprising cat-like grace then sat pathetically on the grey curb with his shattered back leg, a horrible whine pitching from his throat as he witnessed helplessly a horror that should never have been allowed to rise to the momentum it had.

            The boy's parents finally tumbled outside.  T'Pol kicked with frightening power and the dog could do no more than let go as her jaw was yanked forcefully, but with the littlest of harm provoked.  Jonathan felt the power of the kick with the power of the jerk that coursed through her body and had to admit for a fleeting moment his surprise, before he made a fresh grab at her body and stopped her small weight falling deftly with the lack of a supporting ankle.

            The father's eyes never once raised his eyes to the scene of the couple and their dog as he grabbed his son and spoke with terrifying, but quaking authority.

            "If you've got that dog attackin' that poor Vulcan boy again Jake, ah swear to Gawd son, ah swear to the almighty Gawd-"

The father's vocal wrath could not be stopped as he let himself swim on a current of swearing and cursing and general threats to the boy whose skinny arms shielded him from a volley of spitting and shaking and foul howling breath.

The mother had the head on her to take the family dog by her worn leather collar and summon forth fear into the beast's liquid brown eyes than neither of the men could.  As she threw the complaining mass of a pet back into the doorway where the father and son retreated she straightened her lithe body up and faced the silent blinking couple.  For a flicker of a second her eyes rested with neutral tones on the Vulcan before she fell into a mass of apologies and begs. 

            "Ah swear that dog aint out of control, ah do.  Please, don't go callin' the pound - we'll get 'er sorted.  She aint usually an attacker, ma boy must just of got her wound up or somethin'…"

She trailed off hopelessly in the wake of the silence of Jonathan and T'Pol.  Porthos ended back up in the crane of his owner's gentle arm and Jonathan next requested only one thing.

            "Take us to the nearest vets."

. . . . . . .

            "Jon?"

The answering machine to Jonathan's phone broke violently through the lull of sweet silence that had evoked the apartment for the majority of the day.

            "Cap'in?  T'Pol?"

A high-spirited, if not somewhat slurry Southern twang continued to smash the peace.

            "Me an' Malcolm an' ma bourbon are wan'in' some company," there was a slight trace of alcohol in his smiling voice and from in the background a giddy English accent tried in vein to interrupt him, "Willin' ta join us?"

A volley of hiccups escaped the yipping Englishman's background drone and the Southerner had to pull away from his speaker for a second to recover from painful laughter.  The hint of alcohol became almost a statement now.

            "Well, feel free t' drop by if yer ever in the neighbourhood…" there a small pause with hope that Jonathan would pick up the phone.  The hope dashed away with a lob of Southern hiccups.

            "'Though," there was a horrible hybrid of hiccups and giggles in the message now, "ah don't think it be a good idea Cap'in ta bring your new girlfriend round, what with all that non alcohol, non meat, non chicken fuss she's always goin' on 'bout."

The Englishman had been slain with hardcore laughter,

            "No offence T'Pol, but ah think you'd agree.  Tucker out."

. . . . . . .

A fright of white, lustful anger and rage coursed relentlessly through Jonathan's tempest of veins and barbaric notions of the mind.  His dog had now disappeared behind a monstrous pair of swinging doors, gone plain from sight between an unbreakable barrier that stood to tease out the longest amount of angst and worry they could as vets and nurses sauntered by, casual in their stride to provoke as well this same fidgety, blood curling concern.  

Several times now in the waiting room he had been asked if he was the infamous first Captain of the first Warp Five Starship but the irrelevance of the question to the current dire situation often meant these curious fans only took off of him the advanced warning to leave him be, which was a complete shame as on most any other occasion he would probably have stood up and made a smiling, wholly intriguing show for the fans.

            T'Pol sat quietly at his side, managing easily to go by unnoticed.  Her ankle had not yet ceased to bleed.  She refused for it to be seen to for now and Jonathan hadn't the spirit to argue with her trademark stubbornness.  He did however, as she glanced down for brief seconds at the creeping stain of green that circled around the bottom of her tanned trouser legs, touch on her wrist gently with whole sympathy and asked himself to see it.  

As she started blatantly at him, and carefully shook off his touch, he desperately searched her smooth eyes to find some of the concern he had picked up in her voice earlier, but she hadn't much of a care for herself and the torn wound at her foot so he had to board upon himself concern enough for the both.

            "Just a quick look T'Pol, I wont touch it."

She seemed unmoved by the statement.  "It is not your touching it that I base my refusal for you to see the wound on.  You are obviously quite distressed over your dog, and there is no need to provoke more worry with seeing an injury that will heal quick enough on its own.  Besides," she nodded to his left arm and the perfect imprint of the bulldog's jaw that had been left there in his weather-beaten skin, "you have your own health to worry about."

His eyes traced over the shallow puncture marks and the irrelevance of the tears in his skin compared to the work that had been done on T'Pol with thin distress.  He shed little if any blood, so found it difficult to comprehend worry for himself, instead sighing wholly impatiently.

Her heal tucked itself quite neatly behind the smooth silver leg of a waiting room chair.  Where her foot had once sat, now a small, almost insignificant smudge of thick Vulcan blood sat on the edges of a brilliant white floor tile.

He was as dumbfounded at her casual nature towards what must have been an agonising gash as she was for his worry over Porthos.  Understanding failed miserably between them and they tented in a Catch-22, quite happy to sit it out with the other and wait for their own way to come along.

            Not once had Jonathan ever been able to estimate the long-standing patience and stubbornness of his first officer correctly.

            "T'Pol," his voice had dropped dangerously in volume and every vowel came out in a sharp, clear whisper, "let me see it now before I have to throw you on your ass, grab your ankle and take a look that way."

T'Pol was familiar with the phrase 'tough love', as apparently all the necessary pain Phlox had ever cause his patients before came under the title of that phrase, and even as she raised her brow to a new level across her forehead as a first voiceless response to Jonathan she understood that that was what shimmered through his taut emotions now.

            "I assure you, it is fine."

            "T'Pol…"

Trip would have laughed at the banter, he would have laughed for hours and make snide remarks and jokes quite relentlessly throughout dinner that night if they were still on the Enterprise, but for now the situation to the two involved was as volatile and delicate as any communication between a Klingon would be.

            "Please, T'Pol."

A slight appeal weaved its way with skilful subtlety through Jonathan's voice and T'Pol's persistent nature faltered slightly.  He nodded an encouragement and she drew in logic to summon the conclusion that this hassle was not worth it just to avoid a simple, harmless look.  At least that was what she convinced herself of in the end.

Carefully she bent her knee up tightly almost to her bloodstained chest and tucked her leg neatly into itself to allow her foot to rest on the smooth white edge of the chair.  She had been right to try with great effort to avoid Jonathan getting a look, to barricade any further worry.  His face dropped as he saw for the first time properly the battered structure of her bone thin ankle.

            "So, are you going to tell me that doesn't hurt?"

She shook her head.  "It does hurt, tremendously.  But there is nothing we can do about it now, so it is best if I just overlook the pain."

Jonathan's mouth twisted and turned viciously as he tried and failed several times to concoct a reasonable comeback.  He should have known by now there were rare few comebacks to Vulcan logic.  

            "I thought Vulcans suppressed emotions, not physical pain."

T'Pol made to lowered her ankle back down on the sterile tiled floor carefully but Jonathan stopped it with the gentlest of holdbacks.  He lifted the trouser leg slightly higher still and, seeing as she wouldn't be, winced for her.

            "If we are in our own proper state of mind then yes, we suppress any reaction to physical pain.  Crying over a wound will not seal it back up."

Jonathan nodded offhandedly as he fought with temptation to touch the loose folds of skin that had ripped away with the bulldog's canines.  He thought in amongst the mass of thickening blood and sallow skin that he caught sight of a clean white bone, but he couldn't stomach it enough to carry on surveying.  The tough skin around the sickening hole was red and inflamed, as if being bitten had provoked an allergic rash.

            "We should take you to the hospital."

She shook her head and finally managed to place her ankle back down.  

            "The last time I was a patient in a hospital in San Francisco I concluded that I would have been better to stay away and treat myself."  She remember with every detail the accident she had had with a speeding boy's bike, and then the horror that had been three days quite literally messed about in the San Francisco hospital.  "I take it you have medical supplies in your apartment?"

With reluctance, ever unable to lie to T'Pol, he nodded. 

            "Then I shall be fine."

Arguments closed as Porthos' vet reappeared from those impending doors.  His dark face was as difficult to scan for foreseeing hints as T'Pol's constantly was and Jonathan's frustration was nipped at again.  He stood rather calmly though, on his own as T'Pol remained seated and still.

            "That was some nasty bite your dog took there."

Jonathan whipped back a rising frown from making a sinister appearance.  "Yes, I know how bad it was, will he be okay?"

The vet consulted his PADD, so absorbed for a second in the knowledge it contained that Jonathan thought a telepathic link had been made, before he could answer the concerned, pale-cheeped owner.     

            "He's an old dog Sir,"

Jonathan's heart fell as it raced,

            "He'll be okay, for now, but that's going to be one heck of a battle scar to recover from."

His heart crash-landed at the bottom of his traipsing stomach.

            "I'm afraid he won't be coming home with you either, not tonight anyway."

His stomach finally flat lined as well.

            "But you can see him."

A strained wariness settled over Jonathan but a blinding drive to see Porthos gave him a much-needed nudge.  He turned to T'Pol who looked up at him with her perfectly composed, plain brown eyes.  She nodded, as though Jonathan had turned for her approval.

            "I'm sure he'll be glad to see you Jonathan."

It was without competition one of the most unexpected things T'Pol had ever come out with.  He relished every word entirely, with all their sweet flat comfort.

. . . . . . .

Three messages sat urgently on Jonathan's answering machine, an angry digital red 'three' flashing at the base of a small silver disk that was his expensive, compact phone.  He ambled aimlessly by it.  Behind him T'Pol paused at the phone's position and gave it a brief blank stare before turning back to Jonathan who promptly collapsed on his cushy sofa.

            "You have several messages waiting on your phone."

The disheartened dog-owner lifted his neck with great aching effort from its draped position over the back of the couch and mirrored the blankness in his eyes that T'Pol had spilled over the urging digital three.  Disgruntled he waved his hand in an offbeat flurry and threw his head back again amidst the thicket of a lung-filling sigh.

            "Just hit the play button."

Both, in the next five minutes that followed, listened in a hanging silence to the giddy pleads of Trip and Malcolm to join them in their post-tribute to Lizzie.  The first one was the only barely vocally legible of the three; the other two were simple, wasted messages of alcohol and laughter.  Nonetheless, an abstract twist of a smile found itself wilily planted on the utmost tips of Jonathan's dry lips as he lifted his disheartened head for a second time and shared a high brow with T'Pol.

            "I never pinned Malcolm as the kind to overindulge with the spirits.  Trip's got too much influential power.  Have to reconsider him being Godfather to my kids."

As Jonathan's eyebrow slowly rested on a flat again T'Pol's stayed with an accent of elevation. 

            "'Kids'?"

He laughed a scratchy laugh but a genuine laugh all the same.  "It was just a stupid promise, made a long time ago over a bottle of Whiskey in a bar in Tampa.  The gist lies in 'he'd be my Godfather if I'd be his'.  Doesn't seem I'll have to worry about that any more though."

His dejection was more skilfully hidden this time under a tone of airy dismissal, but T'Pol's ears had developed an ironic taste for emotion and most any that was expressed in a human, intentionally or not, she could capture in her lobe.  Jonathan was all too painfully aware of that gift.

He watched, as she wagered his mood, how she stood with an inch missing from her usual perfect composure, as she leant slightly to the left.  Quite guiltily in the ride home he had forgotten the other deviating half to the dangerously trained bulldog's attack.

            "Sit down and I'll fetch the first-aid box."

The notion was not up for debate as he lifted himself off his cushy sofa and headed into his gold trimmed, white tiled en suite.  She without a word, almost in a timid and willing silence sat closely beside the warm dent he had made with his weary body.

There was a great deal of rooting as Jonathan searched high and low for the long abandoned little green box that had served him through many teething days with Porthos, and horrific paper cuts with many unsuccessful short stories as he had tried and failed years ago to find his creative side.  

The small box had never been laden with the responsibility of anything more sever in injuries than a morning shave that had gone terribly wrong one hung-over Sunday, and Jonathan before he had even unearthed the toolbox for mending wounds began to doubt with a flipping stomach its abilities to close up a dog torn ankle.

In the next room T'Pol removed her shallow healed sandal and rolled up the cuff of her blood marked, plain tanned trouser bottom.

With a drizzly level of triumph Jonathan found his medical gold and carried it protectively under his arm back to the living room.  

Once there he quite involuntarily whispered T'Pol's name in sharp accusation as he cast his hazel gaze on her freshly exposed ankle and laid sights on a wound that could only have gotten worse over the past strenuous hour.  She failed completely to understand the prompt for the harsh calling of her name and the expanding whiteness of Jonathan's eyes.  In a haste of footsteps he retreated back onto the sofa and sat with all caring concern drowning him as he camped beside his new patient.  She still failed as she caught a better view into his frantic eyes to discover the catalyst for his distress.

            "I believe all it will need is a mild antiseptic and a dressing.  Your, first aid box is equipped with that, I presume."

The box sat neatly between the couple.  Jonathan abandoned it from his priorities for a moment as he slowly with all caution reached forward with both hands to touch the ankle that sat on his couch, atop a collection of frail tissues from a yellowing box on his black-glass coffee table.  T'Pol flinched.  She did it wholly involuntarily and startled Jonathan faintly with herself.  His eyes became soaked in gentle sympathy however as he eyed her levelly with his trained authority.  

            "Either you let me see it T'Pol, or I'm phoning Starfleet medical and asking for Phlox."

The threat lacked any dangerous innuendo or even tone but T'Pol in her undying reluctance to receive what she perceived to be unnecessary medical attention grudgingly handed over her torn ankle to Jonathan. 

            His touch as it landed on the swollen skin around the circular tear surprised her in many ways with its cooling touch and understanding tenderness.  She scrutinised his fingertips' every move as they held the burden of her ankle, twisted it in acute angles and brushed off scatters of dry, dusty blood and dead skin.

            "It looks infected."

            "That is my blood, it's suppose to be green."

His smile was dark and narrow as a reaction to her thin, desperately dry humour, although he wasn't entirely sure if it was humour at all, or just patronising.

            "I mean the skin around the wound, it's red and swollen and slightly sallow.  It's either an infection or an allergic reactions"

            "Vulcans do not suffer from 'allergic reactions'."

This was utter defence.   It was an instant answer with a tang of pride on each slightly pitched accent.  She kept her face calm and her chin tilted upward slightly and Jonathan repeated his wan smile.  It wavered though and he went back to laying his sights on the aftermath of the bite.

            "I'm sure you don't, and if that _is_ the case then it's an infection."

Her mouth moved open for debate but he stopped her with the raising of a silencing finger, which she grudgingly obeyed.

            "Here…"

As his voice rolled off his tongue in a compassionate whisper he took her ankle in a fresh position in his hand, cupping it with care and concern in one large gentle palm and taking a bottle of silvery liquid from the little green box in the other.

            "This might sting a little."

It was of no alarm to her he knew, to have to endure a small nip, but he felt a need to warn her even so in his soft caressing voice.

From a tiny hole he poured in modest amounts the icy liquid around the epicentre of the gaping hole, then generously more around the inflamed sidetracks.  She watched in bated silence with a tilted head and some untraceable amount of interest for some unaccountable reason.  It took only a second it seemed for him to be become engrossed in his work and then only another second after to focus his attention back on the guest and patient who shared his apartment and his company.

            "Done."

He smiled.  She nodded in a voiceless thank you.  He then pulled out a roll of thick, untouched dressing.  Holding it up for her to analyse he smiled once again and let her know in that smile that she had no choice.  The wound, as they lacked the technology to close the skin properly, would be dressed. She did not argue.  There was no logic in an argument here.

            He carried on working with a beautiful tenderness that seemed to keep her captivated as she continued to watch the slow healing process.  He was efficient but he took his time, and wrapped and touched the injury as the best in the profession of medical care would.  He was ever sympathetic to the pain he could not feel, and the discomfort he knew she would not express to being touched for so long by another being.

As he worked though he observed something that hindered on being disturbing, but for now only intrigued his curiosity in a fretful manner.  The hot redness of the skin around the bite had spread.  T'Pol seemed blissfully unaware of this, truly unaware and not ignoring it as she did so well the pain, but he was close enough almost to watching the spread of the heat and the once olive skin morph into an unnatural dark pink.  In the darkest of the rouge areas sat little rough bumps as if her muscles crawled viciously underneath and her blood vessels tried in all vain hope to escape the tight layer of skin that held them back.  She seemed to be suffering in much the way Malcolm had once across his face and wrists when digesting pineapple he hadn't known about.  And still she was wholly unaware of what had stopped Jonathan's hands from working and rendered him into a considering silence.

            "Sir?"

He awoke again on the prompting hush of her voice and on reflex scowled her for her 'Sir'.  She apologised offhandedly.

            "Is there something the matter?"

Suddenly a notion of insignificance hit him rudely as he stared thoughtfully down at the finished work of bandages around her ankle.  The wound was hardly as bad as he had wagered, he convinced himself, and she was on no level of pain that required intense treatment - as per usual he found himself frantic only over nothing but the 'what ifs' and not the truth that sat in plain, unspoiled sight before him.  T'Pol had always and faithfully been good at reminding him and saving him of this almost unbreakable habit of nature.

His digital holographic wall clock all of a sudden seemed to pitch a volume that attracted his attention to its status on the kitchen wall and the attention he had poured over her rough red skin vanished on a graceful clearing wind through the subconscious.  His brow rose and he smiled thinly, without any heart.

            "I should have gone out and bought that Vulcan food by now."

T'Pol too found herself absently drawn to the clock with her subtle liquidy gaze.

            "It is of no concern now.  I can endure another serving of beans and rolls for another night."

In his weariness he almost leant over and kissed her in a comically grateful fashion.  Thankfully he did not.

            "Perhaps you should phone Charles and Malcolm."

He found a small oddity there in hearing Trip's correct title, but if T'Pol struggled to go from 'Captain' to 'Jonathan' then he could no more than understand her reluctance to refer to someone with their nickname.  He wondered next why he had spent so much of a long minute contemplating over such a small oddity.  

            "No, no I'll give them till the morning.  They're gonna need it."

Her uninterested pupils left the clock once again and landed gently on Jonathan.  He in turn met the gaze with all respect and manner and shamelessly engaged himself briefly in the gentleness of her watch.  

For a short-lived second he was infatuated and could never from then on say properly why.  His only certainty lay in that he treasured the wave of attraction and left it unexplained with all willingness.  He restrained himself with a sorrowful lust not to touch her and instead got up to make their early dinner.

            "Beans it is then."

. . . . . . .

Chapter Five as soon as I come up with and write it.


	5. He Didn’t Read The Label

_A.N: _I am unusual cruel to T'Pol, I know. That's in reference to the upcoming chapter, which is also more of a filler of explanations than anything, so again I apologise, I do. I also thank all the lovely reviewers; you're always appreciated with a big smile.

_Telaka_

. . . . . . .

I looked deep into those golden brown eyes, aged only by wisdom, laughter and travel and almost fell into a shameless, lost sob. Instead, in restraint from tears, I stretched my dark lips into an insanely pleased smile, with a chide of charisma and seamless, innocent cheek, and waved slightly, making those golden eyes collapse in a gentle, soothing laugh.

"Travis, my boy. Starfleet feeding you well?"

Without removing my smile or spoiling hers I shook my head and sat back languidly in a cushy silver chair. "They can feed me all the processed chicken wings they want, but only in tasting your sweet, sweet macaroni 'n' cheese once again will I ever be full. How's life treating you mum?"

It had been many years since I had seen my mum face-to-face, smile-to-smile and touched on the warm embrace that had gotten me through so many years of teenage angst and brotherly torture. I suffered so much to see her so clearly now and yet to be seated so far away from her and the warm, homely environment of the Horizon, both of which I missed far beyond painful words of loss.

There was nothing of an amazing difference in her usual routine to report and to tell long, enigmatic tales about, but her every accented word I hung onto and cherished ferociously and thus found myself pining ever more to return to the one, sole place I could really affectionately call home, save the Enterprise, which had finally come to rest and left us crawling once again on Earth, which I had never been too keen on doing.

My turn, inevitably, came to tell the stories I had skipping in my letters and reports back to my mother. If nothing else they were to remind her of my young, enthusiastic voice and to allow her to gaze on, countless light-years away, at the son she had in spirit lost for close to seven years now. As anticipated she became reduced to red, bittersweet tears.

"Come home Travis."

It was something of an instructed plea and a rather sudden one. I felt almost in a stroke of humour to reply 'Yes Sir' but saw her eyes were not in any particular mood for that subjection of humour, although she continued to smile with hurting joy.

My position in the chair fell forward slightly, my rough elbows settling lightly on the smooth edges of a fine pine desk laid out neatly before me as I leant closer to the small screen in a private communications room.

"Starfleet've already asked if I'd host some lectures and presentations for them, within the week. I can't go hitchhiking across the galaxy right now."

She countered with an almost unbearably tempting argument. "We have a delivery to make that's on an almost direct route that would bring us back to Earth. We'll be rendezvousing in a place no more than a day from Earth in a little over a week, and well, do I have to explain what came to mind son?"

A rounding of the puppy-dog gaze spilled into the dirty white rims of her amazingly rich eyes as she blinked slowly and cautiously, waiting with utter patience in my heavy, comprehending silence for a vocal answer.

It had begun already to grow late. My day of fame with Hoshi was quietly drawing to an end and a late night dinner composed of Starfleet's finest mass produced gravy and meatloaf stood waiting in what we had hoped to be an almost deserted dining hall. I began to wonder, and then hoped, dreamed and preyed as a muse came gradually to me and temptation took over in the mind on the in prospect of returning to the dwelling of the Mayweathers', with company in tow.

"Do you have room for one more linguist?"

She looked confused but smelt the wavering of my reluctant to leave right now back to the Horizon and instead how my mind slowly ground towards the concept and making it a real possibility. I was just curios now if I could bring a guest.

"You know we always need translators. Just most of them are spineless student teachers that don't make it past the first fortnight."

I half nodded and half listened in her half laugh, then half smiled and returned all strayed attention back onto my mother, as I had only a few seconds left in front of the screen.

"Love you mum."

She frowned, her dark brow conveying a none too amused picture of confusion and frustrated love. "Travis…"

Quickly I rose from the cushy chair and leant forward to kiss the screen with all delicate grace. "Talk to you later, I promise. Just let me… confirm a few things, okay?"

It was the closest shave to a 'yes' she would be able to take for now and she seized it greedily with a wistful smile and a hopeful nod.

"Give Paul my regards."

Again she nodded and concealed with some success the new wash of pain that drowned her eyes as I reached forward to end the link. Unable to conjure anything of a vocal sooth I simply leant towards her again and kissed the screen gentle once again before waving slowly to portray my reluctance to say goodbye and then said goodbye and killed the screen. Regardless of the pleads of Starfleet I would be coming home.

. . . . . . .**__**

It was four o'clock in the morning and on a prompt from ancestral instinct Jonathan woke up. He woke up with a rough scratchy grunt and the last vigorous wash of a cold, light sweat. What had caused these were forgotten on the evaporation of the enigmatic dream that had cloaked him for the past few hours, but he knew he was wholly glad to find himself in a formidable reality once again.

For ten dark, labour-breathed minutes he sat contently up in his warm bed and thought about nothing, his mind becoming a swirling void of blissful emptiness. The silence in the apartment lulled a silky calmness onto his taut muscles and his causeless apprehension soon lost all power of sweat and agitation. Slowly he began to lower his tired head back onto his feathery pillow and even managed to settle slightly and allow the stuffed weight of his duvet to coax him into a swathe of ease.

However not any longer than another ten minutes later he found himself once more pulled into a stiff sitting position with his neck craned painfully to the right, to the wall that separated his and T'Pol's rooms.

That night had witnessed a beautiful silence, a cool unbroken layer of peace that had suffered nothing in terms of disturbance save tuneless winds and the soothing rustle of dead autumn leaves. Overall it had seemed a good omen for something, although for 'what' was still undecided.

At twenty past four this bliss was shattered.

. . . . . . .

I sat up, again. It seemed I had no great array of choice, as I grew restless with a low hum that had suddenly found its way into my eardrum. I called it a hum, but the low broken grunting din seemed not to have a class of noise for itself, just a tuneful few chords, and so ragged edges of dissatisfaction ate quietly away at my subconscious. I frowned at its invisible essence and then gave it the satisfaction of finally getting up in the midst of the early morning and its grey darkness.

The humming seemed not to have a source either to call its own, but my eyes in the shade of my shadow-washed room seemed constantly drawn to the joining wall of the bedrooms. My legs in turn were drawn to the cold living room beyond.

There was no comforting warmth out in the spacious main room of my apartment as there was in my bedroom. My torso rippled into a blotchy shade of blue as I stood vulnerably with only a pair of ridiculously long boxer shorts and a set of frayed white sports socks on. Across my cream couch sat a Starfleet t-shirt and I quickly grabbed in and threw it over my head, enjoying the new soft warmth that the black cotton offered me for a quick second before I called out for the lights to come on in a gentle glow.

I remembered again why I had been brought out here as I squinted in the painful yellow wash of light that was summoned instead and simultaneously tuned into a bombardment of rough melodic grunts, no longer a smooth chain of unidentified noise but instead a series of short painful coughs. They grew increasingly disturbing, and they stemmed from T'Pol's bedroom.

For a long unnecessarily long moment I froze and I stayed happily rooted in my living room in front of my television set and surrounded by homely photographs. The moment soon began to tear at me though with remorse, and an all to familiar wash of guilt soaked over me and laughed at me as it did so, and as the grunts grew louder I grew more terrified. I could never say why.

"T'Pol?" The word echoed flatly around the apartment as I came to the heavy oak door and knocked gently with loosely clenched knuckles. I cringed to think I had woken her but regardless of that called her short name several times again. The noise as way of an answer grew louder and it came to me that it was the sound of discomfort and illness.

As that idea smacked me hard across the mind I felt almost complied to laugh. I had nothing to worry about, as quite blatantly Vulcans did not get sick. Although this reassurance left the noise once again with no explanation I nodded at it and shook hands with it and liked it, so wholly agreed with it.

For a third time in vain I called T'Pol's name and knocked sympathetically on the door. Perhaps she had finally learnt how to work the radio and had chosen distortion as her station to lull her discontented mind to sleep. She was Vulcan, even now she still managed to surprise me – to discover she had a taste for distortion would just be one of those many times.

I was wearing a hood of pretence and I was shameless to admit it.

Before I managed finally to scrape forth the courage to open the door and find out the reason for the chilling grunts, the graphic image of T'Pol's ankle in that dog's muzzle came back again with the shock of how much blood she had actually been able to shed in such a small area over a matter of hours. Reality was drawn in perfect pitch and I wasn't that much of a fool to ignore it.

"T'Pol?" I whispered carefully her name as I opened tentatively the bedroom door and allowed a streak of the living room's bold yellow radiance to spill into the dark warmth of the eerily still and clammy room.

It was one of an almost unaccountable amount of times that I wished to be wrong, made rarer still by wanting to be wrong in the midst of T'Pol. She was something of an extraordinary friend to me, but I always did play to get small smug triumphs over her, from the day we had left on our mission with the Klingon till the day the mission was declared over, and still now.

Unfortunately I _was_ right. I was listening to a record of discomfort and illness. Beyond that it was a cry for mercy from an inferno of hot white pain and to escape from an allergic reaction whose intensity was far beyond anything I had ever seen before.

I didn't much care for being right now.

. . . . . . .

Something stirred with a whippet of unrest inside of me, beginning to move at the bottom of my memories as I felt myself being moved physically. I resisted as I detected a touch on my burning skin and, resenting that, felt some win over the body who tried to take me unwillingly as I blindly fought the hands off. In the end however the stubborn and somewhat harried entity that was Jonathan at four o'clock in the morning prevailed over me.

I allowed, with some quiet grudge, his warm, muscular hold to suffocate me in the gentlest sense as he adopted a far more domineering grip, then felt in the rash of heat that had risen from my stomach a level of comfort that I needed all of a sudden come from him.

This was the basis from which my memories stirred.

This hold, this particular embrace of his felt familiar to me. As I registered with some difficulty in a subconscious haze the feel of Jonathan's hands entwined protectively around my shoulders and then my shaken knees I knew without question or doubt or flaw in my confidence of my knowledge that this was what had revived me five years ago.

I shuddered bodily. My ankle blazed vengefully in an inferno of hot white pain and it was far more difficult to forget now when my mind was in such a fevered disarray. I summoned just enough of my wit to utter the name of my carrier – perhaps just to confirm that it was actually him.

There was a sad bitter smile in the response I received and I saw it even, through a blurry flicker of my eyelids.

"Vulcans don't suffer allergic reactions my ass."

On his triumphant note I moaned a logical protest but all that tumbled from my dry mouth was a mumble of inaudible groans. A quick hush from Jonathan as we began to move out sent me on my set path into the clear-cut bank of memories.

The sun on Salanacon is hot, on average a generous few degrees above Vulcan's day-to-day temperatures. I found it no less difficult to withstand than the susceptible colds of New York in November, which I had accustomed myself to within a day, after a horrendous blizzard during a visit to several High Command colleagues many years ago.

Commander Tucker's body on the other hand had other ideas from allowing him to strain gracefully under the three dominant violet suns of Salanacon.

"Why aint this place on the database then?"

His pant on every second word may have been amusing to some. I may have been mildly concerned in some sense as his superior, if not for the edgy curiosity he possessed to see this supposed Warp 7.5 technology that more than kept him standing. I was down for simple micro-scans and other unspoken reasons.

It was to be no more than a half-day mission, perhaps a day if Charles bargained well with the Captain, who was more eager to get to our next shore-leave stop.

"Our peoples' history together, though not considered significant in Vulcan timelines, is not a harmonic one."

Trip's fine golden brow was quipped both in curiosity and concern.

We were footed on the edge of an entrance to one of the many bustling towns of Salanacon. Although so far we had not yet encountered one of the many Sala people yet the distinctly pitched sounds of rushing and working and fraternising came clear over the sandy brick wall, heeding to us that it would not be long before we met one of their many purple hued kind.

Behind us was a fabulous opulent desert of silver grains of sand and a fourth small but the nonetheless glorious golden sun, on a parallel running to the three purple ones. Seated on the edge of the never-ending landscape was our dusty shuttlepod.

"Is it safe for you to be bringin' those ears in there then?"

With all confidence I nodded. "Quite. Over the decades the feud has settled, and apart from perhaps a nerve of disgruntlement within the people they should recognise me as a non-threat as I do them."

The Southern Commander was far from a level of convincement. "Should?" was all he uttered as way of a protest though.

So we carried on regardless in our mild-mannered mission. Almost immediately after crossing the perimeter and making it to the building dedicated to Warp technology our interest were divided. The first three hours of a twelve-hour exploration were initially to be dedicated to a tour around their facilities, a show to highlight their achievements and perhaps allow some bargaining on Trip's behalf for a few trades that would assist in much needed upgrades. Two hours in it was blatantly obvious that another hour would be far from sufficient in covering the rest of the building's grounds.

"Aw T'Pol, c'mon now."

Trip was one of the few that called me T'Pol, bar the Captain, and I often wondered why I didn't chide him more often about it. In this for-instance I forced upon myself a deep breath of warm stale air within a room in the main lab of operations that contained the epicentre of all work and toil – a prototype Warp 8.1 engine.

"We've only been here two hours an' we aint even been shown the gist of it all yet. Ah've still to see the blueprints this baby's gonna go on to."

Behind him stood an eager Chief Engineer of the purple hued Salan race. Often I did a double take on his features, but my eyes always landed on a bright, enthusiastic smile, a wavering one but a smile nonetheless.

"Another hour should be more than enough time to allow you a look at what we planned. Blueprints to Starships were not part of what we had discussed."

Trip's eyes pained and I almost sighed irritably again as his face rolled into a half beg. For a brief second I was reminded of the rich brown eyes of Porthos and found myself losing the will to argue with him. In my hand my sleeping scanner waited patiently along with the subtropical oasis five or six kilometres away, where I had designated the place for part my scans.

"We will rendezvous here in two hours Commander."

Behind him the Salan seemed unquestionably thrilled. Trip frowned, but looked hopeful.

"Ah thought we were t' stay together?"

In my head I once again recounted the Captain's orders and found them rather tedious in nature.

"This is my away mission. It will do us no harm to take separate paths for a couple of hours."

In no way did Charles look ready to protest, instead donning an eager, wholly thankful grin.

"Two hours?"

I nodded. "Two hours."

On the fourth hour I threw my bruised arm up in the air and deftly blocked yet another shatteringly powerful punch. The Salan still despised the Vulcan race.

On me were trained five low-level phase pistols, their beams not nearly powerful enough to knock out even a human but their hot red rays more than enough to seer third degree burns into my skin.

There were five pistols and seven of the Salan. The unarmed three at first took great pleasure in fighting fist to fist. A couple of them even managed a successful hit. Their pleasures dispatched rather quickly however when they discovered despite my lack of height and muscular build, certainly compared to them, I was no vulnerable target, and I was formidable enough to make the fight a fair challenge.

A dank, stained back alley was where I had unwittingly been dragged in to in the midst of this derogatory fight. It worked both to my advantage and was where I eventually fell.

The Salan cannot see in the dark, much like humans although their line of vision is far more superior in poorness. Their twenty hours of intense sunlight a day in a twenty-six hour day, with only dull grey nights, had ruined what was needed to be able to see past corner-shadows and ebony cover. Vulcans as an extreme opposite have an acute eye in the dark, with only a little less vision at night than during any well sunlit day. This was the advantage.

I successfully took down four with this gift of an upper hand, three with swift nerve pinches and one with a bone-cracking hammer to his shoulder via my elbow. He had not allowed me the proper hold on him to execute a nerve pinch, and so he had had to go brutally. I attacked with the powerful action grudgingly. I in many Vulcan senses 'despised' the use of violence, but moreover right now I felt a great need to stop the constant bombardments of burning shots to my torso. Doctor Phlox had been wrong to diagnose my ankles as the first on the long list of injuries, but he had not been far off on his predictions either.

One of the remaining three had finally figured out the simple example of logic that would allow this attack to work much better and faster – that their phasers would not have the same desired effect on me as they would have perhaps on other enemy species, but their bundled fists would most likely make a more than rewarding impact.

The Salan are an ironic race. Although Vulcans do not like the suggestion of the term 'ironic' I once heard it used in a History lecture in my second year at a post-primary Vulcan education centre – a second year at high school on a basic human's terms. The study of Salanacon and the Salan people had taken up half of nine-hour lecture, the other half dedicated to a two-week term on the founding and principles of the High Command. I had been rather intrigued in those first four and a half hours.

The Salan, we were told on an abnormally hot day, are both primitive and highly sophisticated. Physically, as I discovered now, they were built only for a life that thrived on instinct, falling under the loose term of a 'caveman species'. Their weapons were extremely low yield, not yet having created a pistol with a proper stun setting or a brand of torpedoes that could fly. Transport on their planet relied heavily on the labour of animals, or the will of the people to walk great distances, and an average well lived life lasted for only anything of forty-eight human years.

However their Warp and Starship technology was almost unheard of. It seemed the race's one sole purpose and pride – ships faster even in their prime than the High Commands'. Trip had been rendered speechless by blueprints and prototypes, an impressive sign on the research and dedication these people thrived on.

Their lone achievement in Warp and engine technology is what drove that stern wedge between our people. The reasons within this were twofold, and the irony they were laced with a prompt for our aggravation towards the world – we wanted them simply to share their impressive advances in their specialised fields, and endlessly encouraged such a potential and wasting race to achieve more than what they had become perfectionist in.

The Salan, through their irony, are also a proud and shortsighted race.

Many of our negotiators fell because of this, because we tried to revive a species with such narrow aspirations and goals yet such amazing and impressive potential. We at least thought this was ironic.

I became quite literally littered in third degree burns as they convinced themselves for so long that I would fall when I continued relentlessly to stand and fight. In the end it was their weapons that helped them realise the easier option in this fight. I rather 'despised' irony as much as I did violence.

The sleek black nose of one pistol touched lightly on my skull and with feline grace I twirled and grabbed it in a locked hold, intending to disarm or at the very least redirect the aim. Instead I was yanked forward with a horrible jolt back towards the wielder with the gun and thereafter was sent crashing with no given mercy into a dusty brick wall. Next I crumpled to the ground. I remained in my senses though, long enough to feel the shocked and rather pleased surprised silence, and then the effect of what had clicked in the violent group's mind a few seconds later. Their physical caveman strength did indeed produce the more desired result than their weapons.

They snapped my left ankle first with frightening ease, whilst one sat on my back and kept me neatly pinned and still. The right one followed a few awful seconds later. I grunted somewhat forcefully as really I wanted to scream. I grunted again when I was sat on hard enough to crack a rib, the splintered bone pinching lightly at my thundering heart. I mercifully passed out when they pressed so hard on my strained back that my breakfast could do no more than rise back up in my throat again.

I wanted Jonathan to come now. Right now behind me I wanted him here if nothing else that to hear the reassurance he had so often before given me even though I rarely asked for it. Through the blindingly hot reminders of the pain, not the tedious physical torture but the mental angst and strain, I only scraped by because I knew somewhere that my Captain was looking for me, and he would be releasing all hell to find me. I preyed for the man I had come to trust to an insane degree to come now and stop this barbaric, unjust torture of a game. I preyed with all illogical will and preyed fast. Vulcans do not prey very often.

He came as I beckoned two days later. He came as I collapsed on my last inch of wilful strength. I had been rendered a helpless fool for that time, as I could only watch and suffer their continuation to shoot at me, to laugh when they kicked my broken rib and bled my stomach of food until it was dry and instead stemmed out little trickles of blood as a substitute. To laugh when I pointlessly protested and poignantly asked for mercy.

They took scissors to my ears. With an ecstasy of joy and encouragement to the five main fiends they ran a schism down the two tips and bit with lust of grinning hatred into the delicate unmarked lobes and olive rims.

They took me to the alley it had all inevitably started in to be executed, finally mercifully taken out of my misery. At this point, on the very hour of the last of the games I had sorrowfully forgotten about the man I had been begging for. I wondered where Trip was though and, utterly delusional, wondered why he had not made our rendezvous point two hours ago. I was uncharacteristically mad at him, keeping in mind to note his tardiness to the Captain when we eventually, if ever he were to arrive, made it back up to the Enterprise. Perhaps a day on probation would keep his time keeping to standard in the future. No doubt he had been caught up in the blueprints of this proposed wonder of a Starship.

I had begun to consider if perhaps I weren't being a little harsh on the Commander when I felt the nape of my hairline seized and my neck jerked back with a stiff crack. They came close to breaking it, and only just fell short of implying enough force to do so. I wanted to protest but in the darkness of my closed lids I was still considering what to do with Commander Tucker. Perhaps I should just let it slide…

My dry, bloody mouth was forced open to a clammy, dusty air and this time I did, removing my priorities from the Commander's time keeping, protest. I spat with no saliva, only gritty breath and coughed with a foul scent of the dank conditions I had been kept in for close to forty-nine hours now. It made no difference however and a burning serum was plunged down my throat despite my continuation to cough and spit dirty air.

My bruised jaw was clamed shut and I fought for breath through my jammed nostrils. I began a weak vocal complaint. I shamelessly begged for my life once again but it fell deaf in amongst the triumphant smears and joyous laughter. And then a few minutes later it was answered to.

"T'Pol!"

I hadn't heard my name in two days and despite the strangled voice it came from it revived something long lost in me – my simple will of hope.

That beautiful warm embrace evoked me, the same one that had gathered me up in reality a few hours ago now. I thrived for it, and although I wanted just to sleep now I let the choked voice that continued to speak in remorse resurface some lost fraction of my consciousness.

"I'm sorry…" he was hot and breathless and strained heavily on every syllable, "I'm so sorry. I tried, I really did, to get here sooner, I did, I tried, I—I really, did… I didn't think, T'Pol, that you'd, I didn't…"

To me as I listened carefully through closed eyes, he sounded sick, and I worried to some degree as I worried for where Trip had gotten to.

"But we're here now, it's okay, Dr Phlox, he'll… yeah…"

The ground was taken away from my aching back and I was elevated in a fiercely protective hold. It was that what saved me then as it did now in the vague present hour around me. What had been downed in my throat had lit my stomach in an agonising fire of acids and chlorine, as my ankle had been now. I knew of the chlorine because I was critically allergic to it, and one of only a handful of Vulcans who were. It was another factor that accounted to my father's set belief that I was unnaturally 'different'.

I stemmed from a long line of males on my father's side and by every law of Vulcan nature he should have had a third son. Instead I was conceived and produced.

In terms of the education that laboured every Vulcan into complete self-control within a half a decade I was no less than a year behind my peers. I had still been susceptible to the occasional mild temper tantrum at two and a half and was easily distracted until I was just shy of seven.

Thereafter of course I was a model of self-discipline and control, but the reputation amongst those of my age and those who had taught me that I was a 'rogue' of some kind became a stain that my father forever regretted privately.

I was impulsive and stubborn and very strong minded, as well as having a tendency to boast at times. I wanted without question to teach – I did best socially when in the company of those looking for academic aid from me. In that quiet sense I was proud. I was gifted in the sciences and above average in maths and wanted to take these as what I would teach at the utmost level of study, which I know perfectly well I could no with all success.

Instead my father steered me towards the High Command and there was where I lost most of this 'free spirit' that shamed him so. He was the only reason, although I worked wholly hard to do my father's bidding and earn a place with the High Command, that I managed to become a Science Directory and then eventually a Sub Commander on their Starships. If I had been anyone else but the daughter of one of the most respected Ambassadors there I would have been far too disagreeable and strong-minded to make it in.

As my stomach twisted in furious pain I began to struggle under the hot suns of Salanacon and the hot grip around me. For a brief second I lost my bearings and so in turn my trust as to whose hold this was around my seared shoulders and knees. Unresolved issues chose to surface in the rolling mist of my sickly confusion. I had unfinished micro-scans to finish, a chance to redeem my race a little more with the Salan by talking directly to Ambassador Kreenal. I had to find Trip. He still had not rendezvoused with me yet. I had to let the Captain know this.

"My Gawd."

That was Trip.

"Move aside, _now, _if you wish for us to leave peacefully."

Malcolm.

"Shh, T'Pol. It's me, Jonathan."

I had continued to struggle as I fretted but stopped when that hot whisper spread across my burnt face. My filthy cheek brushed against his dusty chest and without consciously knowing it I dug my face in a relieved nuzzle. My swollen fingers gripped his t-shirt desperately and feebly and my left ear bled freely into his shoulder.

My stomach cindered in acidic fire again and I could feel the lining break out into a blazing rash but it seemed not to bother me as much now that I knew whose sorrowful hold I was in.

The past glided smoothly into the present as Jonathan mimicked his same hold of remorse on me into Starfleet. I gripped his t-shirt, I nuzzled into his chest and relished in the same hot whisper that blew over my quiet face again.

"Shh. I'm not gonna let this happen to you. I'm not gonna lose you after everything we've already been through together. I'm just not."

They had been the exact same words he had uttered to me before I had woken up five years ago and wondered why he had been crying over my bed.

A drop of salty water landed on my forehead. I wondered yet again why he was crying over me.


	6. And It Cost Him A Payment Of Guilt

_AN_

I heard there was gonna be a forth series of Enterprise, I jumped around a lot when I found out  _smile_  And I'm confident it'll be around for the seven series, and if the cast stay interested that there'll be movies.  I don't know about Friday nights over in America but Friday at nine in the UK is the best T.V timeslot you can get, it's when they show Friends over here, and that's the highest rating show right now (last episode Friday!)

_Darrah – _I was wondering when someone would pick up on that.  Yeah, I read the other day that T'Pol says in The Xindi (mind I haven't seen it) that she doesn't have siblings.  I wagered she said it to Trip so I'm gonna pretend she was just trying to make him feel better in her own Vulcan way, when really she does have two brothers (I'm sure I can get away with it if I don't mention it).  I've had the idea of the two brothers in my head for a while now, and they're gonna have fairly important parts in this story later on.  I was reluctant to scrap them and so decided I'm just gonna go ahead with using them.  Thanks for pointing it out anyway though, good to know you're paying attention _smile_

Lastly I apologise for my American geography, if it seems a little absurd or farfetched where the characters are jumping to-and-fro.  My Scottish geography is hardly the best, so I stand a pitiful chance of good educated guesses on the times and distances between places in America.  It's why I'm not specific with where they all live.  I hope I can be excused as I was for doing nasty things to T'Pol.

_Telaka_

. . . . . . .

The woeful serenity had returned once again in a layer of cool, innocent peace around the dark grey corners and surfaces of Jonathan's archaic apartment.  The hot flush that had shot through every rudely awoken inch and disturbed doorway had disappeared with the flurry of panic and fear that had vengefully stirred it into rising to begin with.  It had escaped through the front door and carried on down the empty motorway that would lead the couple to the nearest base of Starfleet from Jonathan's apartment, the one in San Francisco.

            Jonathan's given room to T'Pol still sat in an edge of unrest, but was gradually settling once again into this dull harmony.  At one wall, lying dormant and timidly still beside the crisp white floor border of the room was a small pile of neatly broken glass boasting a sheen of brilliant silver in the small amount of moonlight that poured out endlessly in a cloudless night through the thin, airy curtains.  Underneath the glass lying in a creased pile was an old, faded photograph with lit up smiling faces; a father and his twelve-year-old son; Henry and Jonathan several years before the distinguished engineer had eventually passed away. 

It lay in tatters now because of T'Pol. 

The night before she had sat perfectly still and perfectly calm on the bed in facing with the picture, gazing with an unbroken stare into the matching glint of the fantastic hazel eyes of father and son, and felt an unmistakable wash of liver green envy as she did so.  It was a pure emotion that shot through her body quicker than she could seize it and bury it, but she didn't entirely mind that it had bombarded her.

She had rarely expressed the emotion of love before.  She had felt it; without doubt she had felt it for Trip many times before, until it had faded into an indestructible love for a friend instead of the pure raw lust of infatuation that she had once experienced for him so.

It was not either of those breeds of love though that she was spiteful of not being able to express right now, but the love of a family that for her had either never existed or was simply as distant as the space between herself and her relations on Vulcan was right now.

            She had watched fathers and their offspring before, at school or out in the street, loyally side by side and always like this in spirit and soul until their dying days.  And although it was true that love was not a thing stressed at in most any Vulcan, it was a thing that you could pick up on very slightly in the grey eyes of a father as he watches his son take his beautiful mate who bore his first grandchild, or his daughter when she becomes that symbol of power in the High Command, or even a University that they had always strived together to get.

            Taron had never cared enough to express that flash of pride and love in his stern grey eyes for his daughter, and T'Pol had never before considered it a thing to be emotionally concerned about.  There was no reason for why he should favour her enough to be proud of her, or to actually express love for her.  Although he did so in those subtle ways to his two older sons.

            The picture of Henry and Jonathan encouraged further the emotions of envy in T'Pol that was fuel by this fact.  It was a prized picture of Jonathan's of the two on a camping trip together a few months before the cancer had been announced in Henry's body.

            T'Pol had struggled fiercely the night after, when Jonathan had stumbled in during the climax of her suffrage and tried to take her up in his desperate hold, if anything than just to offer an outlet of comfort. 

Whenever her strength was put into practice he was surprised.  He had wrapped his arms around her shoulder blades and she had pushed out with her arms covered in sickly blotches of dark green hue, almost without strain sending him to the wall.  The wall had shuddered; a ripple of nervy vibrations shot through the plaster and concrete and then there was the awful, deafening shatter of glass against the maroon carpeted floor.  The beautiful white frame of the prized picture was taken beyond repair and Jonathan for a brief second had turned on T'Pol with vengeance blazing wildly in his exhausted eyes. 

It took very little to extinguish the flare of hot anger.  She continued to shiver and curled into herself in chocking pain and he could do no more than re-approach with some heavy amount of pity in his eyes before he gathered her up quickly with no further falter, held her almost too tight and carried her out of the room, uttering only one weak comment of 'Vulcans don't suffer allergic reactions my ass.'

            The long night road to Starfleet's San Francisco base was cold and harsh, unforgiving in length and merciless in its rough terrain and awkward corners that were spitefully littered throughout the many miles ahead. 

There was only one Godsend and that came with the face-slapping fact that they were travelling through a damp, velvety black half four in the morning.  Adrenalin kept Jonathan awake but thankful so many others slept in peace and the roads were eerily empty for it being such an ungodly hour.  He sped on regardless to speed traps and traffic control.

            The landscape was nothing but a hasty blur of opulent dark greens and dull greys, the sheen of silver from a full moon still in full reign and displaying itself in shameless pride along steel barriers and magnificently tall lampposts. 

Little was actually visibly focused to Jonathan save the dreadful path he had to follow in front of him, and the shivering entity to his right, buried deep under the only thing he had remembered to pack for a two hour road trip, a thick, fleecy cream blanket that usually belonged draped uselessly over the back of his couch.  Right now that blanket took on the heroic role of lifesaver to the heat that continued to race out of her body, despite the heat of the wound and the fire in her stomach.

            Jonathan hit a long stretch of perfectly straight road and threw his foot on the accelerator, not a flicker of hesitation stopping him from desperately topping the speed limit by a couple of twenty kilometres.  He gritted his teeth, his knuckles turned a smooth ghostly white and his eyes became indistinguishable under a dark, concentrating frown. 

He dared to throw T'Pol another quick glance.  Nothing had changed in her curled figure and he had to force himself to believe that to be a good thing.  At least last time he had checked she was still breathing, somewhat.

            There was a sliver of some pale purple sunrise from the western border poking through, but it was nothing to illuminate the dark and T'Pol remained hidden tactfully in the shadows of her own body and the heroic blanket.  Neither the blanket nor the night could hide the small grunts and moans she made in a useless protest to the pain and the reaction though.  Jonathan strained his ears and a few times he fancied that he had heard his own name uttered, said in something of a strangle, with almost no volume in the pronunciation. 

He took his right hand off the gear stick briefly and pealed back some of the fleece from T'Pol's head, giving himself somewhere on her body to focus on.  As the blanket piled onto her shoulders and his hand retracted back it swept the crown of her coarse hair and he stroked it slightly, applying enough pressure so that she might be able to distinguish his tender touch.  She seemed to warm to it, and he ran his rough fingers over her soft, cold cheek next, before he threw his hand back onto the gear stick and swerved through a bombardment of sharp, horrendous corners. 

Half an hour until they would reach Starfleet.  Only on his life would they be too late in getting there.

. . . . . . .

He fancied that under the buzzing numbness of the bare exposed skin on his dead left arm that he felt a familiar stretch of rough leather from a black couch moving back and forth as he subconsciously began to move himself.  He preyed it was a green dyed blanket that had slipped wilily from off his shoulders to a crumpled mess on the floor, and that the floor beneath him was a glossy laminate one.

Upon him was donning something very akin to the worst hangover in the entire memory of his thirty-six years of life.  Behind it would soon follow the deepest trench of regret known also to him and perhaps to mankind.

            Malcolm's cheeks were blazing, and he sat up blinding to touch on them tenderly, on their glowing red entity, before he opened his puffy, dull blue eyes and found he was blind anyway as he sat in the midst of an enclosed living room, Trip's living room to his relief, at seven o'clock in the morning. 

His location this time around was at least was better than some of the destinations he had been chained to on a fair few stag nights for vague friends of his back in England.  For some reason a field of cows came to mind in him, although for now in the haze of an approaching headache he wasn't entirely sure why.  He just knew it wasn't for the obvious reasons…

            A low, scratchy moan erupted from the ebony centre of the living room and Malcolm strained with all the power in his eyes to see past the shadows and to make out the bulk of grey that had begun to shift around on the wooden floorboards.  Most likely it was Trip, but he could never entirely rely on assumptions.

            "Trip?  Tell me that's you Trip."

Irritation oozed from every syllable of the Southern accent that answered back.  "Course it's me y' idiot."

Malcolm smiled, wholly glad that their black surroundings covered the sly expression on his lips in turn of Trip's annoyance.  And Trip carried on to rant in annoyance with lack of thought about the words he was uttering in his own looming hangover.

            "Who y' expectin', the Cap'in?  _No_, Jonny's too busy with his new _girlfriend_ t' come celebrate with the guys right now, no.  Can't come out no more, nope…"

He trailed off, too exhausted and too in pain to continue complaining.  It was hardly as if he meant it anyhow, except for the small twang of jealously that accented a few of his more stressed words, specifically 'girlfriend'.

            "Too many years rising early in Starfleet, we can't even break the habit in the aftermath of the biggest binge on Kentucky Bourbon in the history of Lieutenants and Commanders drinking together."

Trip managed to smirk freely in the dark.  "Amen to that."  He then clapped lightly to the ceiling with his hot palms.

Pain shot through their heads like pain had never done before.  Trip had hoped to summon a gentle glow of pale yellow but instead they were abused by a holy shower of brilliant white, almost as if from the laughing gates of heaven itself.

            "Trip, Trip kill it now before I bloody well kill you!"

There was no protest against the threat and Trip clapped rather madly at the sleek silver ceiling until they were once again plunged into a soothing darkness.

Two soft thuds echoed flatly around the apartment as both men fell back into their makeshift beds, Malcolm's the couch once again and Trip's a pile of randomly collected towels and rugs pilled haphazardly on the wooden floor of the living room.  Neither was up for a decent complaint about it.

            There was a moment of whispered serenity and in it Trip could almost hear the grinding of Malcolm's mind as he thought tactfully as a Tactical Officer should about what to say next to the brother of the deceased Lizzie.  It made his Southern face smile, somewhat sadly and somewhat humorously.  He always admired Malcolm's somewhat vein efforts to be subtle, as subtly just wasn't in his blood.

            "What time is it?"

Trip's watery eyes did a lazy tour of the living room, searching for a clock with a glowing face that should have been able to cut through the darkness with ease, and should have been sat on his bookcase.  Instead it sat fallen to the floor and under the coffee table, several yards from where it should have been. 

"Seven."

Trip listened to the gentle scratching of Malcolm's nails against his hot, reddened neck.  There was a commotion of leather against bare skin again as the Englishman settled down somewhat, then coughed then resettled.

            "Somethin' botherin' y' Lieutenant?"

Yet another cough emitted from a rather dry throat, then a sigh as Malcolm threw away his hesitations.

            "I was just wondering… feeling any better?"

A warm, crude laugh flew through the apartment, the Southern boom of it sinking into every corner and announcing more pain in both the men's hangovers, yet still Trip kept a smile on his face.

            "Alright?  Malcolm this is the worst bloody hangover ah've had since ah was eighteen, Gawd only knows what we did last night, an' Lizzie still aint back from the grave."

Malcolm could see no answer to that.  Trip gave him one instead.

            "But ah'm the best ah have been for five years, an' ah'd say the grieving's finally given up on me, so cheers mate."

He placed his hands together in another gentle clap.  A glow of soft, sympathetic pale golden light trickled from the beams of lights on the silver ceiling above and after a second of squinting Malcolm found his eyes adjusting and focusing before landing on Trip.  The man had all intentions of innocent evil in his brilliant blue eyes.

            "Wonder if Jon and the Sub Commander got the messages."

Malcolm instantly buried his face back into a menagerie of pillows and leather.  He clearly did not want to know the answer to that query, as much as Trip did.

            "Ah say we visit them today."

As Malcolm lifted his head to utter some worthless protest he allowed his eyes to hover on the corner where Trip's prized computer sat, always on and always ready for a heavy abuse of games and networking.

            "You have some messages yourself."

Trip spun in his pile of fabrics to crane his neck painfully back towards the slight glow of the compute screen.  In the right hand corner sat a little grey box with a little red three in it; emails, and already the two had wagered whom from.

Trip made something of an unnecessary and wholly ungainly commotion as he rose to his feet, his legs failing to have almost any real power in them as he fell with a definite thud on his elbows then got back up again and repeated the act several more times across the living room floor.  It was a process of crawling that he almost used in the end to reach his prized possession in the corner. 

Behind him Malcolm came up, steady on his own feet now and only a little pale on the cheeks.  Trip threw him an odd look of confusion over his stiff shoulder.  He ignored the Englishman's composure and the slight twang of jealousy he felt for it then as he threw himself in a silver swivel chair and placed his fingertips on the touch board, guiding a curser around that was shaped like an NX Starship.

            "Where did you get that?"

Malcolm pointed towards the curser, his eyes rolling into a hybrid of wanting and scoffing.  He was still to decide whether he was impressed by it or not.

            "Downloaded it from some fanatic kid's website in Detroit."

Malcolm decided it to be rather sad in the end.

Trip moved onto his emails.  The sender was who both had expected, three from Starfleet.

            Despite the constant lash of throbbing pain that coursed through the two men's eyes they successfully managed to read all three letters in only a small collection of minutes.  Both seemed to be emitting an aura of pride and overwhelming cheer when Trip logged off his Starfleet email address.

            "Lectures, tours o' the NX-02, blueprints, conferences; ah'd say we've become pretty popular down there Malcolm."

He was not to disagree, and his smile was as wide and bright and gloating as the Southern ones was.

            "Nine o'clock in San Francisco it is then."

Trip nodded eagerly, the redness of his eyes seeming to evaporate on the mist of the invitations.  His frame of mind as a one Commander Tucker ran back to him as fast as the headache ran out of him.  Malcolm was washed with a tint of healthy colour once again as he stretched and stood to in his proper stance once more. 

The two had just found the best cure for a hangover.

. . . . . . .

She was gone; preformed the same disappearing act as his dog had through cold steel doors, all the while flanked by many donned in white trench coats who spilled waterfalls of medical jargon from their lips and nodded sagely to each other in turn, as she lay blissfully unaware in the epicentre of their sudden gathering.  He preyed Phlox would be behind those doors after she crossed their white bleached midst.

His head tilted back as he ran his trembling fingers through his wispy dark hair and let go his own flood of curses and dark, damnable jargon.  For a moment his silent hazel glare was closed and titled to the ceiling and he stayed rigid with two large, upset hands on his face and a dangerous quiver in his knees that trembled through the fabrics of his old black trouser bottoms.

            He wondered for a second why he hated himself so much at this current hectic moment, then realised he didn't much care for the 'why' and knew he just did and most likely wholly deserved the self-loathing.  It was very easy to lay blame on himself at least, he knew.

In the stormy haze of his spiteful confusion Jonathan heard but did not register a voice, projected and speaking to him somewhere behind him.  He didn't much care to heed the presence of that either, until the voice trickled down his neck in a hot billow of breathless speech.

            "Jon?"

In unexpected fright he jumped, spun at a sickening speed on his sharp heals and titled his chin down slightly to the shorter and unexpected presence of Admiral Forrest.

            It had only been two days since they had spoken together at the extortionate party but their moods simultaneously had managed in that small period of time a clean 180-degree rotation from proud, gloating smiles and congratulations to dark, overcast brows and bundled concerns.

The Admiral's mood had been cemented as so for several months now though.  He had been brooding over certain delicate and corrupt matters for many tedious weeks, matters that should have been discussed as they had occurred to Jonathan, or at the very least when the Enterprise had landed the two days ago.  As it was they had not been, and the Admiral had neglected his duty to keep Jonathan informed as he should have for several slightly valuable reasons.

Jonathan's disposition had been on this sharp, icy edge of remorse for only short of three hours now.  He was rather more a little uptight.

            "Jon, I heard you were here.  Your first officer…"

            "Took a bad bite in the ankle off a bulldog this afternoon.  Taken an allergic reactions now."

Forrest fell to a cold silence, his cool blue gaze resting on the floor before he could stop it, concern, fret, anger and hot nerve all displaying an unpleasant mixture of confused emotions in his suddenly lost gaze.  The sole nature of this supposed attack would clarify something to Forrest that he would rather not know, despite the essential need to actually know.

            "And the dog, was it a stray, just a random attack?"

Jonathan frowned.  The Admiral was one of a rare few that could keep his tempter at bay just by his lone presence, even when it was pulled at its frayed edges with tedious banter such as this.

Forrest in turn of the grey shadow that rolled over Jonathan's gaze looked flushed.  Certainly he was short of breath and his harried volley of speech did nothing to help him regain a steady pace in his lungs.  He was more on a dangerous edge of build up tension than Jonathan had ever been before, or could even know.  It was electric between the men, although neither meant it to be.

            "No, it was a little boy's dog.  Didn't look too bothered that his dog decided to take a chunk out Porthos' and T'Pol's leg…"  The last part rolled out as a bitter murmur.

Forrest heeded it and grew increasing sombre now amongst his rolling emotions.

            "I knew we should have talked about this earlier, but I didn't think anything would happen.  I'm sorry Jon, if anything happens to your first officer…"

Jonathan's frustration lined with thick layers of guilty angst, made his patience for such cryptic comments, even ones from the Admiral, short.

            "Talked about what, Admiral?"

. . . . . . .

They ended up in Forrest's colossal affair of a pine decked, silver laced, comfortably airy office. It was, in short, a beautiful room, overseeing an array of lush green gardens and echoing with sentiment.  It was cool and cushy and effortlessly put Jonathan's homely quarters on the Enterprise to shame.

It all went blatantly unnoticed in Jonathan's mind as he was offered a sleek silver chair to sit on at the front end of Forrest's black pine desk.  He became settled as he felt a wash of numbness sink into the tattered nerves of his body.  His mind had begun to hypothesis the different outcomes for T'Pol, and his habit of coming to the worst conclusions kicked in painfully hard.

A pair of unflinching, dirty green eyes tipped slightly with a splash of sorrow and regret watched him carefully as his own blank hazel gaze walked unleashed over to the windows, overseeing the gardens and un-focusing on them as his mind raced frantically.  Very delicately the Admiral coughed and sympathetically commanded the former Captain's attention again.

            "We have the best medics in San Francisco here Jon, she'll be fine."

He at least seemed to hear him as he moved his gaze with somewhat of a blush in his pupils back to Forrest.  "Sorry."

Forrest shook his head then came out with the beginning of his news.

            "I knew I should have contacted you about this the day it happened, but for some reason I didn't.  I figured, I suppose, that you'd turn right back round to Earth, when it wasn't necessary.  That, and you might have…"

Jonathan narrowed his eyes.  He didn't cover the slight burn of scorn in his impatience.  He believe for now that his place was at the side, or as close as he could get to it, of T'Pol, not cosy in his boss's office.

            "And?"

Forrest could only hesitate for so long, he knew.

            "And you might have turned on your Commander."

            "Trip?"

            "Sub Commander."

There was a slight twist in Jonathan's pale lips as they drew up faintly in a misplaced smile with the dark hazel shadows in his eyes.

            "And why would I do that?"

            "Well you were never a fan of the Vulcans Jonathan, you have to admit that.  She could be your wife and you'd still have your grudges."

The twist slowly settled into a flat line once again as he listened to Forrest skip around the gist of the news he so urgently had to share a few minutes ago.

            "Admiral, would you please just get to the point.  What did the Vulcans do now?"

Forrest shook his head quickly.  "No, no it wasn't the Vulcans, not directly anyway."

There was another silence for a taut moment.  Forrest shifted in the elegant grandness of his black leather chair then saw he could play Jonathan no longer on wavering pauses. 

            "There was an attack on Earth."

Jonathan slid forward very slightly on his chair.  "There's a familiar phrase."

Weakly Forrest smiled.  "It wasn't one on any major scale, but it should never have happened, not here on Earth anyway."  There was yet another pause before the Admiral continued with a blunt statement of the truth. 

"It was an Andorian attack on the Vulcans."

Jonathan slid back that fraction on his chair.

            "They targeted the High Command's San Francisco base, and there was casualties from all sides; Andorian, Vulcan, and us."

The 'us' churned loudly in Jonathan's beating mind.

            "Twin boys coming home from baseball practice, twelve, and an Ensign from Starfleet, Ryan Gallacher who was at the High Command as part of his linguist course.  The Vulcans retaliated with force and lost five men and the Andorians two."

Jonathan felt in the next bout of silence the tan of handsome light brown that so often coloured his cheeks slowly drain with any heat from his body.

It was a rather painful silence, drawn out and put in more ache by its length, during which Jonathan's mind had to consider where the brunt of his worried lay now – with T'Pol or the donning realisation of this unspoken prospect of the war Shran had always warned fiercely about.  There was no temptation for him to turn on the only Vulcan he had ever shared a smile with though.

            "They later attacked Vulcan but the Vulcans were ready this time and there were no casualties, the Andorians just found themselves limping a little afterwards."

Another weak smile graced Forrest's face and Jonathan, despite every confused inch of steadily rising anger he felt, shared in it with a pathetic curl of his lips.  Both expressions slowly faded away again though as Forrest carried on his report.

            "The attack's left a lot of unrest now Jonathan.  Old hatreds have been rekindled.  A lot of people are resenting the Vulcans again, blaming the three deaths entirely on them, and there've been a few attacks now, Humans on Vulcans.  My guess; T'Pol was just another victim.  The dog was probably trained to go for Vulcan blood."

Jonathan moved forward the fraction in his chair again.  There was no subtle hint of anger in his gaze now, but a war of the emotion on every inch of his face.  His mouth was contorted into an expression of unspeakable rage and he only just harnessed enough will not to take Forrest's computer and aim it deftly for the window to the gardens.

Forrest didn't protest the anger he saw, as his reaction when finding out the reason why a Vulcan had been hospitalised with third degree burns in the sickbay in Starfleet had almost mirrored a level of rage to match Jonathan's now.  He would never be an utter fan of the aliens, but he had made his peace with them a long time ago now.  He may wish to see them in the wrong sometimes, but never if any unjust harm.

            "Starfleet and the High Command are looking into some of the attacks, but it's unlikely they'll come up with any evidence to pin responsibility on anyone.  It's mostly young Vulcans, ten or eleven.  If it's kids attacking kids then there's little we can do about it."

A quiver of unease shot through Jonathan and he found in that second he could sit no longer.  He rose at breakneck speed then stood in a quiet lull, nothing making complete circles of connection in his mind just yet.  It left him harassed and agitated, with himself and whatever else there was on hand to blame.

            "Why didn't you tell us this when we landed then?  At the party, after the press conference, even when I said goodbye to go home?  You knew she was coming with me, why didn't you tell us to be careful?"

On every set of syllables his voice rose without his consent or his care.  Slowly his feet began to trace a small line back and forth rhythmically in front of Forrest's handsome desk.  For a while all he could see was the smooth pine floorboards at is pacing feet and for a while it was all he wanted to see, and all he could bear to face.

            "Is that why there were no Vulcans at the landing party?"

His voice had suddenly lowered to a kind of calm mumble.

            "Partly, yes.  Partly because they still disagree with Enterprise ever leaving space dock, partly because they still objected to you captaining the ship and partly because of T'Pol.  They detached themselves from the mission a long time ago Jon, unofficially since P'Jem and official since the Xindi I'd say."

A small bob of Jonathan's head signalled that he grudgingly understood.

            "I don't think we have to worry about the Andorians attacking Earth again."

            "No, only Vulcan."

There was a rare trace of concern in Jonathan's voice for the Vulcans now, but then seven years befriended to one (whether she would admit to being a part of the mutual bond or not) had swayed his opinions on the race in many slight ways.

            "They know they have our backup.  It's just a matter of whether they'll accept it or not.  But we'll do what we can for them."

Only another slow bob from Jonathan's stiff neck signalled at all that he was registering Forrest's subdued words anymore so the Admiral stood up.

            "I'll walk you to sickbay."

It was the only simple sentence that was going to effectively seize Jonathan's attention again, and the sharp snap of his eyes back onto the Admirals dirty green ones proved it.

            "Phlox is down there, and I don't think he's stopped talking about the crew and humans since he got back.  We're doing everything we can to keep him aboard with us, but Denobulan is keen to have him back as well.  Ultimately it'll be his choice"

If a smile graced the Captain's face then it was too brief for the Admiral to catch as he took Jonathan's tense side and walked to the door with him.

            "You know we're keen to keep T'Pol aboard with us as well, if she wishes."

Jonathan nodded, the action quickly becoming a commonplace response, although he added a vocal afterthought this time round.

            "She wants to be a lecturer in other world Newtonian and Quantum physics.  Figures."

Forrest smiled for the both of them as they began a passage down a golden hall smeared shamelessly with pride, which showed in the numerous photographs of humanities' achievements throughout the many decades of technology that were plastered on the cream walls.

            "We have more than enough room for a lecturer, especially a Vulcan lecturer."

Quietly Jonathan muttered another "Figures" before he silently demanded a quiet root down to Starfleet medical with Forrest, allowing as they went that feeling of self-loathing to creep slowly back onto him, still without a cause for it being there and still without him caring much at all for the 'why' of it being there.

One certainty that he felt linger painfully was that he owed T'Pol a long overdue apology, for something.


	7. Understanding

_AN_

I kinda hit a writer's block over this past week or so, so apologies for what may be a rather stiff chapter.

Only a few things to say really. _The Vorta Wey-out – _good point, but I'd have thought that when the Enterprise are done with all this Xindi stuff I keep hearing so much about, that they'd return back to Earth to fix themselves up again (I saw 'E2' after a friend taped it for me, and I saw the mess of the ship –_low whistle_-). So I figure they go back to get the ship fixed and restock on weapons and upgrades, and new crew members. I don't think they'd go back into space minus 13 or so most likely fairly important posts.

Sound good? Do I get away with that one? I really am scraping it with the canon stuff, I know.

_dennisud_ – I will make sure to give the Andorians a motive, thanks for the tip.

Now to the story.

_Telaka_

. . . . . . .

It was something of a horrendously hectic Tuesday morning in Starfleet. Yet if it hadn't been busy, overcrowded, hot, stuffy and generally teaming with humanity then there would have been a bad reason for it and so something perhaps terribly wrong. Instead it was a normal day of eternal hustle and clockwork activity and with few eyebrows rose at anything interesting at all, until some highly respected and wholly famous faces, in their own rights, came in.

It took very little effort by Malcolm and Trip to take the average worker's attention off of whatever valuable task lay in their hands and onto their freshly arrived and ever slightly grinning presences.

"I don't think there was a place I could ever have called home better on Earth than here."

Trip let his feet come to a slow halt just outside the San Francisco base of Starfleet, Malcolm standing no more than a half a stride before him, once again drinking in the familiar place with his own smiling gaze.

"Nah, Florida'll always be home for me, but this would be ma favourite home away from home."

Slowly Malcolm nodded as he took his hands from their stationary and temporary position on his hips before beginning to walk forward into the colossal steel front entrance arc.

"You coming or do you plan to gawp all day?"

Trip flashed him a brief, tight smile. "Alright, keep yer shirt on."

For mid-autumn – the month of August soon to become that of September – it was rather a warm and clammy day, the sun as high and solid as a late-summer's and as bright as a spring's. Its gleam on anything reflective was at most angles almost blinding and the place being constructed of masses of aluminium and steel was a living metaphoric halo of holly light.

It made getting in the sight all that more blissful. The interior was cool and fresh and gentle on the eye with its dominance of sea blues and pale greys as decoration to the walls. The most blinding place on the eye probably now would be the room of plaques put up for the NX-01 crew, past and present.

The couple savoured the breezy entrance hall as much as they did the familiar welcoming of the front gates as they made their way automatically to the swinging double doors that would lead to the tens of levels of blueprinting, construction and testing rooms.

They had been heeded in advance in the email that their arrivals were expected in their own areas of expertise, engineering and weaponry. The only thing that bugged Malcolm in particular about all of this was how they who contacted them knew he was at Trip's. For now he made no mention of it though, as the matter appeared as far from Trip's concerns as his sister was right now.

They didn't quite make it through these double doors on their first try though as distractions prevailed to stop them; half way across the sterile lino floor they managed to trek before Trip recognised the one face most familiar to him.

"Jonathan!"  
A former Captain that looked on his last nerves with this day, even though it was only rounding for nine, stopped in his tracks on his way to the lift that would lead to the offices of the Ambassadors and Admirals and turned on his former Chief Engineer and Tactical Officer. His eyes were exhausted and not shy of the presence of bags but they seemed quickly rejuvenated with a brief smile as they settled on the two varied tones of blue in the men's sets of eyes.

"What have they pulled you up for his this time, eh Trip? Haven't caught you stealing office pens have they?"

The two men exchanged brief, brisk pats on the shoulders as Trip claimed his innocence and Malcolm, although as comfortable in the presence of these two as he had ever been with any person, held himself back with a simple smile and a "Hello Sir."

"Jonathan, Malcolm, my name's Jonathan, or even just Jon if you like. Between you and T'Pol I think I'm gonna lose it with the 'Captains' and the 'Sirs'."

Very briefly the Englishman and Southerner swapped the same teasing grin in their eyes before they turned back to the unshaven Captain.

"Sorry… Jonathan."

It seemed to pain Malcolm slightly to call him that instead of the more comfortable Captain or Sir.

"I take it then you've been called in to update Starfleet on what you two invented in your free time up in space."

"Got it in one Jon."

There was no reluctance or discomfort to any degree in Trip to call his old Starfleet buddy by his real and then abbreviated name. He had no shame in prying into his business either.

"Can we ask you the same then?"

There was a mark of hesitation in Jonathan drawn out long enough in an awkward silence to prove his next words as either a blatant lie or a generous twist of the truth.

"Admiral Forrest has… some business with the Vulcans he wants me to help clear up with him. One successful cruise on one Starship still isn't gonna be enough to explain to them that we're competent enough, but then who was kidding who into thinking it would."

The weak smile that came with the explanation was true enough, reflecting slightly in his tired eyes to confirm it, but never would Trip be convinced by those words. He also knew however when to let something lie and not on his life would Malcolm comment on the cover up.

"Well if the Admiral's callin' we wont keep him waitin'. Catch up with y' both later?"

Trip began to edge towards the double doors again, Malcolm at his side as they walked slowly backwards.

"Both?"

Trip grinned and shrugged. "Yeah, ah assume T'Pol's still hangin' 'bout with ya?"

There was another hesitation followed by another weak smile. "If I can convince her to go to a bar then maybe we'll meet up with you both at the 602 some time."

There was nothing that could stop the short snort of laughter from Trip's nostrils or the widening of lids from Malcolm, who took his turn to speak up in the humour of the proposal.

"I must say, good luck with that mission Cap—Jonathan."

Jonathan's lift opened for him and he stepped in with a fresher, bolder smile, even if he did still reek quite obviously of fatigue and agitation. "Well I don't imagine it'll be as difficult as it sounds. I'll give you both a call when she comes round to the idea."

Their quipped brows at his confidence sent him on his way as the silver doors swallowed him quickly and sent him up to the offices of the big guns.

Thereafter there was no hesitation in Trip and Malcolm's own conversation.

"Ah don't buy it."

"I'd be worried if you did."

"If the Vulcans are involved then so's T'Pol so she's gotta be here with him."

"Well aren't you the Horatio Caine?"

"You like all that old cop show stuff then?"

"They weren't cops, they were Forensic Scientists."

"No, Horatio was a Lieutenant. Ah would've have thought you'd known that."

"I do, but he did focus more on the evidence, like the Scientists."

"Okay, well the evidence here says somethin' runnin' up Jon's ass and it's got somethin' t' do with T'Pol an' the Vulcans. Ma guess is T'Pol aint too happy with things either."

"Vulcans aren't generally 'happy' about anything Trip. It is still classes as an emotions."

"Don't you have a Calleight' go chase 'Horatio'?"

"A man of the shippers eh?"

"Down boy."

. . . . . . .

I heard him come in, as quietly and delicately as if he had just snuck in and went against every concrete law of the medical offices in Starfleet as he did so.

With only a whisper of footsteps he began to cross the small, single bedded ward and I intended to rise to greet him, until he uttered a sigh so heavy with remorse and angst that I found for some unaccountable reason myself staying down with my eyes trained shut. My back, slightly archer with my knees risen slightly to my chest lay to face him and my head was buried in sheets; he wouldn't have known I was awake even if I did lie with my eyes open.

"T'Pol…"

I couldn't place any logical cause for the waver of depression that dropped on every syllable of his husky voice, but it was as prominent in his throat as his grey shadow, which I watched drape over the bed and across my face as I listened to him come to an awkward stand at my side behind me. Still I played myself as asleep, and still I wasn't sure why.

"I'm… so sorry that I could probably never tell you how much by. I promised myself I'd look after you, and, well," there was a pathetic tumble of miserable laughter from the depth of his throat, "you don't really need looking after, hell you could punch a guy harder than I can, but… I should have been more careful, I should have been paying more attention."

Warily I moved one stiff leg down the bed and there was a pause of desperate hope from Jonathan, but I didn't dare to move another part of me thereafter. I understood now he was saying things he would perhaps not say to my woken face, and so I felt it only right that I allowed him to carry on. I would judge later whether I was 'making excuses', as the Humans say, for myself or not.

"God I was your Captain for seven years and I never really let anything happen to you then, except…"

He wilfully let himself trail off and we shared silently in those same distant memories of Salanacon for a hushed moment before a dry cough from Jonathan brought the present back to both our attentions once again.

"I'm such an ass."

I felt him take a few steps back and watched the shadow recoil from across my face and shoulders a little. He emitted another mess of laughter but it was poisoned with spite now, and very quietly his teeth ground forcefully together. I wasn't entirely sure where his anger was directed at, but I found it entirely illogical for it to be aimed at himself, even thought it seemed to be.

"I'll never understand you T'Pol. I'll never understand why you stayed with us on Enterprise, why you gave up everything to do that. I'll never understand why you were so _stupid_ to do that. And I'll never understand you Vulcans, and your logic, and your pride 'cause by God do you have pride. And why you're so stubborn!"

I clenched the sheets slightly. His anger still seemed slanted towards himself, yet he was hailing his frustrations on his misunderstanding of my race and myself. I had to admit to a thin haze of confusion now.

"I, just," through clamped teeth he almost spat his words, "don't understand!"

Quickly a hush filled the void that the echo of his voice made. I drew breath in short silent tolls, daring not to break the tension laced heavily throughout the room, the epicentre of it all radiating from Jonathan's clenched fists.

Suddenly at my side the bed dipped and I grabbed the sheets as an automatic response. If Jonathan caught my reflex he didn't heed it as he sat in silence on the mattress at my hip.

"The one thing that I'll really, never get, though, is when you wake up, you'll forgive me, and then forget my mistake within the hour. Yet whenever _you_ make a mistake, I make sure to make it an example of why Vulcans aren't the perfect role models they're always claiming to be, and then after that you'll forgive me and forget that as well…"

I held my breath for just a little over a minute and as the pent up air escaped my throat the husky whisper of it seemed to rattle every wall and nerve left lingering in the aftermath of Jonathan's short, strained speech.

"And I can't say Shran didn't warn us, warn you. He 'wont keep allies if they wont fight his enemies with him'. I just hope that wasn't him five months ago, 'cause God help me if it was."

To self-confess to it, although I didn't understand why he was quoting Shran, I found I was somewhat glad I had played asleep and let Jonathan speak. His short speeches seemed something he had had to say for a while now, and something I should probably have heard, even if it was never intended that I do.

There was now something I had to ask him, but for now I found it was necessary that it waited.

There was a gentle commotion of sheets as Jonathan shifted his position slightly. His hand bore down on my head, his palm gliding tentatively over the crown of my neat cut of coarse hair. He then leant down and kissed me so carefully on the side of my forehead that I only just felt it with the hot exhale of his breath. My eyelids flickered but I fought to keep myself 'asleep'.

"I am, really sorry."

And on the wake of that he left. I understood his actions as well as he did my nature.

. . . . . . .

_-Five Hours Later-_

They both still believed I was asleep. I began to wonder as I continued to play the role of 'vulnerably ill' (as I discovered more of the plain, honest truth this way) whether they were now paying more attention to their PADDs (Phlox) and their remorse (Jonathan) than my actual current peaceful and rather well state of body.

"Captain you can't go blaming yourself for this."

They were at the doorway, which lay perhaps just a little less than ten feet or so from the base of the single warm bed of the small, sterile room.

"Jonathan, my name's Jonathan and you're entitled to call me that now. You're as bad as T'Pol."

I had discovered in the last five hours also that Jonathan appeared to have stemmed some sort of habit, I don't know when, of referring to me offhandedly in such ways as he had just now to Doctor Phlox. They sat as half-chides in his voice that most probably meant no harm and even seemed to possess a hint of affection in them.

When referring to an apparent 'half-smile that sat in my eyes and bugged the hell out of whoever it was directed at' he had even laughed somewhat dryly. I honestly hadn't a clue as to what he was claiming to see; eyes could not smile and I certainly never, there was no sense in his statement what so ever.

"Fine, Jonathan." Phlox spoke with a tangle of impatience nestled in his so often optimistic and charming voice. It reflected in the blatantly tense atmosphere of the room.

"Will you please reason with me on this?"

I shifted the position of my torso more comfortably onto my side but neither of the two paused to observe as Jonathan had before every time I showed a hope of 'waking'.

"I poisoned her Phlox! There's no gentle way of reasoning with that, I'm sure. I managed to perform something of the biggest trick of ignorance for myself to date and she's here now as she is because of it."

"Jonathan I would be far more worried about your actions if you hadn't tried to do anything to help with the wound in the first place than making a mistake when you did. By any standards it was a bad injury that could very easily have gotten infected by the time it had taken you both to get home. Using antiseptics on it was the best idea for it, even if unfortunately it did do more bad than good in the end."

"But I _know_ she's allergic to chlorine, it was made perfectly clear after we brought her back from that damn planet, right?"

Phlox must simply have nodded because Jonathan continued his self-infliction of guilt a few seconds later with some hint of triumph.

"And I damn well know there's enough chlorine in antiseptics to kill her, like it almost did back then five years ago. And I almost did now. It wasn't the dog bite, it was me. I put every inch of her left leg into a rash and almost burnt her stomach inside out. Hell I…"

A heavy weight fell onto the end of the bed. Jonathan had collapsed into a silence at my feet.

A smothering of sympathy found its way into Phlox's voice, which had been loud and fierce with defence on his moral argument barely half a minute ago.

"And you've hardly left her side since. It's clear the harm caused was unintentional. I never understood why humans couldn't simply accept their accidents and mistakes, especially in such cases as this where what was done can easily be fixed, and no harm was ever intended. Now I have two Denobulans with as fine a medical mind as my own and a whole team of your finest doctors that will all tell you the same thing – she will be perfectly fine. More so right now than she is probably letting on…"

He knew I was awake, I could even feel the smile. Jonathan never did catch on.

The stress of weight at the end of the bed was relieved as he with a grudging sigh rose to his stiff feet again. I dared not move, as my face and its features were no longer so well concealed that I could venture to open my eyes slightly. My eyelids flickered but only in response to the ache of my actual eyes, and it was true that I was suffering from enough fatigue to simply fall to sleep once again, even as these to commuted words.

I had done so already even of several occasions over the past five hours now but in turn I was always woken by the sound of Jonathan's low, husky voice, either his words spoken to me rhetorically or, as once before this time, to Phlox.

That conversation, which had taken event only two hours ago, was dangerously close to repeating its general outline once again, coming just as close to ending the same way as well.

"Can I leave you now without worrying that you will be in here 'beating yourself up' over the mater, as Commander Tucker so aptly puts it?"

I imagine Jonathan smiled to some small degree because a short pause was followed by a cheerful 'Good!' from Phlox.

"And I do hope that we can chat again later, under better circumstances," was meant as his after note to his former Captain.

Jonathan's continuing smile, the one that I had seen so often across his whole face and not just restricted in his mouth, seemed evident in the general atmosphere of the room now. Most peculiarly I seemed relieved to some extent by this. I felt a sensual release of tension across my shoulders and down my spine and the bed protested through a quiet hail of rustling sheets as my full weight finally settled on the stiff mattress.

This time Jonathan took heed of my unintentional movement. His cold hand landed tentatively on my freshly relaxed shoulder and rested there as he reverted back to speaking with Phlox.

"When will she be awake?"

Phlox probably emitted another of his smiles that most, if not all of humans found curiously disturbing.

"Ah, I imagine any time overnight. She's asleep now, more than anything. Resting."

Another cool silence swept in soon after the answer and it was clear Phlox was eager to leave for his other matters of business most likely dotted throughout the medical halls surrounding us.

"I really do have to go Captain."

Jonathan's hand left my shoulder in haste and I listened to his heavy footfall rush across the sparingly spaced room to see Phlox out the door, in part making up for the hesitation he had caused.

"Of course, I'm sorry."

"Nonsense."

And so I listened in a drowse of senses as they said their goodbyes and premature goodnights and the afternoon grew on a little and I felt a great urge to fall back asleep again. A small whisper of "He really is as bad as you T'Pol" was the last of Jonathan's voice that I heard before I curled into a comfort of sleep that managed to last me until the early hours of the next morning, which saw me prematurely awake yet again.

. . . . . . .

A breed of uncomfortable silence fell carefully over the cool blue of the small room in Starfleet's sickbay, evaporation what had been a delicate serenity that lulled the air within. Jonathan's eyes flickered open stiffly and his throat swallowed back a wad of thick, hot saliva. He lifted his head slightly from where he had finally fallen asleep at the chest of T'Pol, who herself slept on with unsettling stillness.

A shadow spilled inward from the doorway to the quiet, private ward. The silhouette of an unnamed entity sat at the feet of T'Pol, stationary but with the grey nose directed at Jonathan. He continued to blink furiously, still unaccustomed to the smoky darkness and still very much half-asleep.

"Phlox?"

Of course it was not Phlox, for Phlox would have had the decency to allow a man to sleep in contented peace when he had been on an electrified edge for close to twenty-four hours now.

Who it really was became evident when Jonathan's eyes picked up on the small traces of light that snuck in from the hallway outside which allowed him to pick out the face of the being behind the olive shadows of his features. He refrained from spitting the name of the person that he finally focused on as he rose slowly from his hellishly uncomfortable makeshift bed that was a lumpy, jet-black plastic chair.

"Soval…"

The Vulcan in the former Captain's midst nodded respectfully. His sallow aging hands tucked away comfortably into a mountain of rich, dull green robes and his eyes were hidden almost in the olive shadows that shrouded him. Jonathan's vision fell into slightly better focus with what little other light there was from monitors and a small window and he knew with bitter distaste in studying the elder's subdued face that the Vulcan wanted something. Most likely it wasn't something from him.

"How it Sub Commander T'Pol?"

Jonathan's response was instant and fierce on the sharp edges of his tongue. "She's not your Sub Commander anymore. Or your business. What do you want, seeing as I guess you're not here bearing flowers and grapes?"

Soval, not understanding the snide, throwaway comment, ignored Jonathan's resentful words and blatant tone and kept his attention on T'Pol.

"I assure you Archer that I am not here as a threat to yourself or T'Pol. I simply heard that she had been taken to Starfleet medical here in San Francisco after a rather, unfortunate attack involving one of the canine species of this planet, not your own pet I hope, and I wondered if we couldn't talk whilst she was here."

Jonathan knew Vulcans perhaps better than they or even T'Pol gave him credit for, if nothing else due to the Science Officer he had had forced upon him at the beginning of the mission, and who had stubbornly stayed at his side ever since. He was usually aware of when they were twisting the truth certainly, as he could often tell when T'Pol was doing so, and their reasons for twisting the truth were rarely for a good cause. Soval was particularly ease to pick up on and Jonathan stood forward slowly in front of T'Pol, almost protectively.

"And why would you be turning up at one o'clock in the morning, when she's asleep and no one else should be around?"

Soval sighed, showing as much irritation as he would allow in that short gust of air out his nostrils.

"Your suspicion is unnecessary and brash Archer. I thought perhaps she would be meditating at this time. We Vulcans do not need the same amount of sleep you humans do, for a Vulcan to be up this late would not be unusual."

Soval's pride would never die, it was eternal in him as T'Pol's stubbornness was in her and Jonathan's few loyalties were to others.

"You can come back in the morning, when she's awake, if she is."

Soval was also as proud as he was resilient. "This is not a social call Archer. What I have to discuss with the Sub Commander has concerns with the High Command, urgent concerns, that I need answers for preferable by noon tomorrow."

Jonathan came level with Soval's grey gaze as he took a purpose stride forward towards the snobbish Vulcan ambassador and glared deep and vengefully into his dark, unflinching pupils.

"If it can wait for five years then it can wait another couple of days."

"We need T'Pol's official resignation now, to break her off from her contract with the High Command immediately and to assure she will not work with her unruly manner in any station of authority and respect on Vulcan again. It is quite important, although I'm sure you don't appreciate it so."

Jonathan growled his with narrow eyes. "Don't patronise me."

The whisper chilled the corners of the room. A soft rustle signified movement in the single bed in the private ward but Jonathan remained unfazed, inches from Soval's nose with his own.

"It is plainly obvious that you do not at all understand the importance of this resignation. She is a threat to authority and order within the High Command and other respectful organisations. We need to be sure she will not discard others as she has us. We must—"

"Get out."

Every swaying fibre of Soval's stance froze. "Excuse me?"

Jonathan stepped back from the elder and pointed sharply at the door. "Get out now."

"Archer, if you would simply think about the damage she has done—"

"Out _now, _before I have to haul your ass over the exit myself!"

Soval lost his argument on that. He looked with a poison of distaste on Jonathan before he spoke on his leave.

"I will have that resignation by tomorrow Sub Commander.

Jonathan turned as Soval's dull gaze was spilled over his tense shoulder and onto the entity behind him. T'Pol sat up on one elbow, unyielding in movement and dangerously stern in her own gaze.

"I will receive a proper hearing, as I am fully entitled to Soval."

"We are not on first name terms Sub Commander."

"And I am no longer the High Command's Sub Commander, remember?"

Jonathan turned back to Soval, his shadowed stare lain carefully on the stubborn aging features of the elder once again. "You heard her."

The Ambassador looked wholly reluctant to leave without what he had come to receive from the former Sub Commander, but with a curt edgy nod he eventually did.

"Admiral Forrest will alert you as to when your hearing is, until then you are designated to stay on Earth and cannot return to Vulcan. That is an entitlement of the High Command that I'm sure you are aware of. Recover well T'Pol."

A gentle ruffle of his opulent outfit signalled the take of his leave through the ajar ward door that Jonathan quickly shut over as his heal left the white lino of the room.

The tension thereafter folded away as quickly as it had drowned the room. There was a jolt of surprise through the air though when Jonathan turned back to the bed and embraced T'Pol as he sat on it, with little shame in his tight, bodily show of affection and relief.

"You have to stop doing that to me T'Pol. You'll turn a man's hairs white"

She was naturally taken aback by this unexpected action, the utter strength of it, and the ferociousness of it that echoed the intensity of his previous worries, and she coughed slightly in her lingering fatigue.

"Sir—" she squirmed in his hold slightly whilst automatically correcting herself, "Jonathan, I have not 'done' what I presume you to be referring to since the attack on Salanacon, five years ago. I apologise for not seeking the medical attention you had suggested I should have beforehand, but would you please—"

Jonathan unwrapped his arms finally from T'Pol, the dark fashioning a sliver of coy redness across his cheeks in a crimson shadow as he did so, but his jaw mildly beaming quite insanely in his characteristic way nonetheless.

He carefully repositioned himself at her side on the bed once again and as he did so his face morphed slowly from the smile to a façade of deep, regretful sorrow, which eased also into his somewhat husky voice.

"I'm sorry."

T'Pol quipped a slim brow and sat up tentatively as a quiver of prickly heat darted down the sensitive skin of her spine and insulted leg. She tensed and quietly winced in the pain.

"Here, lie down."

Tenderly with utmost care he placed a hand on her cold shoulder to urge her down and she watched it grudgingly.

"I'm fine."

She took his wrist just as much carefully and carried the pressure of his palm off her shoulder, giving him his hand back, which he in turn placed reluctantly at his side.

"There's some… news I have to fill you in on."

Although she did not lie down T'Pol settled herself back on one lithe elbow, using her free hand to bring the thin sheets tighter around her to bar herself from the cold that continued to play across her skin.

She was watching Jonathan now with something of a curious taste, wondering if he was about to indulge to her the news about the antiseptic that she was already fully aware of. Instead he told her about the Andorian attack, something he hadn't spoken to about in her 'sleep'.

"Considering how our last encounter with Shran went," she spoke quietly after the ten minutes it took Jonathan to wade his way through what Forrest had told him; of the attack, its casualties and the Humans' response, "then perhaps we should not be so surprised about this."

She also spoke carefully, each word thought over in her mind before uttered across her tongue.

"And would you call that an excuse?"

No one had thought to turn the lights on and Jonathan looked almost ruthlessly agitated and confused by T'Pol in the smoky shadows that lingered throughout. It was not she that he scowled at however, only the situation and how things looked already to be heading to conclude. An idea of war at least stayed stubborn and emphasised in his basket of many hypothesises.

"No, but I would say that he did heed us well enough two years ago that something like this could happen. It is unlikely that we will go to war with them though, it is not Vulcan nature to fight."

"But you will if you're provoked. It's not as if you sat on my ship with your fists and your pistol to yourself the whole seven years. And the Vulcans have already retaliated"

She sat up again, her elbow growing unpleasantly numb under her weight. "Provoked into self-defence is very different from engaging willingly in war.

Silently he gave her that as a fair argument. It did nothing to convince him however.

Very suddenly T'Pol laid herself down again, her face tightening and her eyes closing as she braced herself through a wave of hot pain that coursed down her leg and through ever nerve of her healing ankle. She allowed it to pass rather swiftly with no fuss and as she slowly pealed her lids open again thought it needed no explanation to Jonathan that it was simply a passing of pain emphasised slightly by her clinging fatigue. His somewhat quietly horror stricken eyes told her otherwise.

"Are you alright?"

She moved to pillar herself on her elbows again but his cold hand came down on her shoulder once more and made no threat to keep her down this time, but instead firmly did.

"I'm fine."

The remorse was back to haunt Jonathan's expression again. After her assurance that she was fine a silence lingered over them, unbroken by T'Pol because she knew that this time he was on the cusp of telling the story she already knew of the antiseptic and its high ratio of chlorine, and how he saw this as nothing short of entirely his fault. She wondered if she would waste any more deprived hours of sleep debating that with him, as it seemed Phlox had failed in doing so, before she finally sat up and spoke up again.

"I did myself suggest using a mild antiseptic. It would have to be my fault as well, if it were to be your fault that this happened, as neither of us checked its label to see for chlorine. And also it would be the boy's fault, who trained his dog as he did, and therefore the Vulcans and the Andorians fault for provoking him to train his dog as so. You should be able to see yourself how illogical it is to think that you alone are the sole convict here, and further more illogical that you continue to feel guilty when such an accident has turned out to have little lasting harm in the end."

Perhaps a hundred times he had heard these such speeches from her when his emotional reaction had been 'illogical' and a hundred times he either responded with his distaste spat out about the Vulcans, or with no response at all. In this case, this morning, his response was the latter, with only one small difference to the other hundred times; this time he found himself reasoning with the argument, and eventually, as she kept unbroken eye contact with him, having to agree with it.

"I'm still, very sorry."

She nodded graciously. "I know."

They watched together the glowing hands of a wall clock move to form the signal for half past one. In heeding it they both felt a wall of weariness strike them, chiding them for being up so late. Jonathan removed himself from T'Pol's bed.

"I'll leave you be then. Admiral Forrest set me up with my old quarters again for the night so you're not stuck with me snoring for the rest of the morning."

"You do not snore."

He smiled gently. "Goodnight T'Pol."

As he turned his back she sat forward off her elbows quickly again.

"Wait."

He stopped himself dead and turned back to her in the dark. "Yeah?"

Although she hesitated then for a moment it wasn't for long and she plunged ahead with the question she had decided to ask when listening in her sleep earlier to Jonathan.

"Will you come to Vulcan with me, after the hearing?"

The request was dangerously close to being a needy plea, but her calm gaze and level tone kept it just from sounding so.

"I have to speak with my family again, and would appreciate the company if you came with me."

Very slowly, as the wholly unexpected question shifted over and turned in his mind a smile broke the darkness of the room and Jonathan nodded willingly. "Of course. Just let me know when and I'll wipe my calendar clean."

In turn she nodded back. Relief shot through her in a warm wave of blood. Carefully she laid herself for the last time that morning on the bed to settle back to sleep. Jonathan made no hesitations to leave her in peace and allow her the last bout of rest she needed in recovery.

He shut the door tentatively behind her and under a short whisper of breath as she listened to his footsteps carry him away she uttered an almost silent 'Thank you'.


	8. Aldon and Uncle Paul

_A.N  
_  
Hmm, apologies due for this chapter... I will apologise for the dialogue between Jonathan and T'Pol, I think it barely misses the classifications of corny.

Also some of the indenting and paragraphs may either be wrong or non-existent. I'm on my dad's computer for the weekend and he doesn't have a word document program with web page facilities. So I'm having to do this all by hand. Apologies for bad grammar (and many possible typos).

Other notes. Of the pairing of Hoshi and Travis. No one said it would be a romantic pairing of these two, or at least I never. I'm still not sure what I'll do with these two, romance or non-romance wise. I know their story, what they'll be getting up to together, I just not how they'll be together during it. That becomes decided as I write them together. But, just as I have stuck with Archer and T'Pol as a couple, despite how unpopular it is with so many, if I like the Travis/Hoshi paring then I will stick with that as well. You don't have to read it or like it, but that'll be how it is. (That and unlike my friend, who by all rights has guided me well through the 'do's and 'don't' of this story (most of which I ignore), I'm not mad keen on R/S (or T/S for that matter)).

And I'll tell you, as my last note; it's mid June over here and still pouring with rain. By July we'll maybe win over a couple of weeks or so of sun, tops. By August/September we'll be drenched in rain and snow again. I thought saying September was dull, but not rainy was being generous. So you can forgive me for the weather mistake, non? (Ironic this is, as Storm is my ultimate favourite X-Man, a fact that bares no relevance here...)

Oh! Watched the advert for _Impulse_ on the Star Trek website. I've already deemed it my favourite episode, lol.

Okay, now onto the chapter.

_Telaka_

. . . . . . .

_-One Week Later- _

____

Travis had news for Hoshi, important news that was above trivial things, that was to interest her and propose to her an idea and offer she perhaps would not be able to refuse. He had told her this twelve hours ago. The only reason why she still was unenlightened as to what this enigmatic news was now was because Travis had left her twelve hours ago to 'tie up some loose ends' and since then she had not seen or heard from him.

It was early morning, around nine on the clocks. Despite how early it was though the mess hall for breakfast was almost on the brink of being peacefully empty, save from having the presence of a few staff fresh off their nightshifts and a scatter of a few others who like Hoshi weren't exactly working for Starfleet right at this moment in time. For the most though the masses of people that were here to train and work had already begun their shifts early in the dark, crisp morning.

Hoshi now had the pleasure for once of sitting in a cool private corner with her buttered toast and her herbal tea and a book on perfecting the different Klingon accents, a rare and recent edition of a short novel that had not sold particularly well, but was kept documented in one of Starfleet's many vast libraries here in the San Francisco base for the training linguists to read at their leisure.

She did not bank on company until mid-afternoon, around the hour of four, when Travis had promised to turn up outside in the lush jade gardens to meet her again and reveal to her the mystery for his grinning apprehension. So until then she was content to take up residency in the familiar mess hall and quietly repeat to herself exaggerations and emphasises on different letters and syllables of hundreds of different words in Klingon until she felt she had perfected what she was practising. To her this was leisure time spent at its best.

The last mouthful of her toast and swirl of her tea disappeared down into a now full stomach. She pushed the chipped saucer and cup away and rubbed sticky crumbs off her slim fingertips carefully before she dared to turn the pages on such a rare book again. Seconds later she was joined by company she hadn't banked on at all.

"Ensign Sato? Hoshi Sato?"

With a start, never noticing the evading presence that had lingered over her for the past few seconds until it spoke up now, she quickly put her book down and gasped up slightly at the face above her.

It was the smile that caught her breath more than anything, a cheery optimistic smile that seemed basked in a modest golden light and which stretched far beyond the realms of any human smile's capabilities. And atop that was a pair of eyes far too amazing and rich in their hue of unflawed, breath-taking blue also to be of a humans, or naturally occurred from a human. In them and in the smile was a youth so fresh and so eager just to be standing and asking of whose presence he was in that Hoshi doubted with scorn whether her sights were actually clasped on an adult and not an energetic ten-year-old.

To tell her more 'what' she was in the company of were the distinct, generously curved ridges down the temples of each side of the pale glowing face and the dark tanned stripes that ran down the middles of a pair of skinny pale arms. Whoever she was being greeted by, she was being greeted by a Denobulan.

Uncertain, but keen to do so the Denobulan stuck out one of his arms, obviously intending to shake Hoshi's hand with her. Hoshi understood that Denobulans often kept bodily contact with others to a bare minimum and so she could only continue to frown curiously and have the decency to extend her own hand for the stranger to shake and express his generous curtsey. He took heed of her quiet confusion and smiled wide and golden again, quickly apologising for himself.

"So sorry, I'm so rude."

He dropped her hand after shaking it thoroughly and the young Ensign soon found she couldn't help but indulge in a smile herself with every polite and apologetic gesture and word he kept uttering.

"I'm Aldon, one of Doctor Phlox's sons, his third eldest."

Instantly Hoshi's eyes widened and clarity swept over her as fast as it possibly could to compensate for the blind confusion of before.

"Oh, wow, you're Phlox's… oh sit down."

She automatically stood up and quickly offered him a chair beside her, which he took with all amounts of honoured joy spilled out across his emphatic face.

"Thank you, thank you."

The two sat and the Denobulan continued to beam on relentlessly, his every word almost breathless with happiness.

"My father has told me _so _much about the crew he's been working with in his letters, about the curious nature of humans and how fascinating and delightful they are to work with. To finally meet one of you, Ensign Sato--"

"Hoshi."

"--Hoshi, well, I'll call it an honour shall I?"

There was little denying the light, modest blush of pale, dusty pink that painted itself across the bridge of Hoshi's nose. She smiled nonetheless, surprised at how much Phlox had indulged to his son about his company on the Enterprise, and taken by Aldon's sweet, youthful nature.

It was difficult to gauge his age, she found, not knowing particularly well how Denobulans aged, but she wagered he was anything in human terms of between late twenties to early thirties. His eyes were as bright and fresh though as an untainted child's, ready to absorb the world's opulent wonders for the first time.

"Well, I don't know about an honour, but it's nice to know Doctor Phlox has been saying good things about us."

Eagerly, never dropping his smile, never daring to, Aldon nodded. "Oh yes, he's never had a bad thing to say yet. He says you have funny strange habits such as talking and eating at the same time, and keeping beats of lower status in your quarters, but it all just adds to your brilliantly curious nature he also says, and I must confess I wholly agree."

Hoshi put her book in her bag and sat more comfortably to face Aldon better. She also laughed quietly. She was well aware of Phlox's fascination with the simplest parts of the human condition, and found his taken interests in turn curious herself. Many a times she had sat in sickbay watching him work and answering hundreds of his off-the-record questions and queries about her species.

"So, do you know where your father is right now? I haven't seen him since we landed."

In truth she hadn't seen any of the eighty-three crew members since they had landed, save from briefly passing Commander Tucker in the hallways up to Engineering and seeing the Captain darting about in the medical corridors one day. Often she would wonder the halls of Starfleet alone, interested to see what she could see, and take heed of the dramatic and subtle changes that had occurred over the past seven years.

"I have been on Earth for a month and a half now, and in this past week seen very little of my father I'm afraid, but I know that a few days ago he was giving your former Sub Commander, the Vulcan, an overview of the injuries she had received about a week ago."

Aldon said this with all the cheer of a passing comment that at first it didn't register in Hoshi to be concerned at what he had just told her. And as soon as she did understand the context of his words he was ready to move onto another subject, almost without a breath to spare for a break.

"My father says you're a fine young woman with a promising future here in Starfleet. He's seen you conquer your fear of space and enclosed spaces and says you don't even squirm anymore when you watch him dissect one of his experiments."

The blush returned as quickly as Aldon spoke. It was true though that if anything now Hoshi was wholly keen and ready to return back to space with any opportunity that may be presented to her, which was as parallel to her nervous attitude towards space travel on a Starship seven years ago as was possible.

"Well, you know, Captain Archer could convince just about anyone that space travel's the only career to go for if you've got the talent for it. That, or water polo."

Aldon quipped his head to the side in a silent and confused question of 'what?' to which Hoshi smiled casually and shrugged off her unimportant reference to the sport her Captain loved so.

"So, do you work for Starfleet?"

Aldon forgot his confusion as quickly as Hoshi had the Denobulan's reference to the Sub Commander and her injuries of a week ago.

"Ah, I'm on the same Interspecies Medical Exchange as my father is, and I've been assigned to work here for six human months. I'm training to be a doctor to be able to treat in general various different species, just as my father is able to do."

Every time he uttered the word 'father' their was an indistinguishable, unspoilt serving of pride laced heavily into his vast unbroken smile, that grew just an extra few millimetres whenever they referred to Phlox.

"I take it you look up to your father then?"

Aldon nodded eagerly again and Hoshi smiled gently, admiring the high regard the son had for his father. She did not see that very often anymore. Certainly it did not exist so strongly between herself and her own father.

Suddenly, in the wake of a few seconds of silence between the two, Aldon's face lit up faster and brighter than Hoshi could almost comprehend and see.

"Perhaps I can show you some of my work?"

He was close to exclaiming the idea, which sprung to him as brilliantly as his eyes did widen and gleam, shouting it almost for the few dozen left in the mess hall to hear. He made it almost entirely impossible for anyone who respected others' feelings to say no. There was no reluctance in Hoshi to say yes however, and she almost found herself tempted to laugh in good nature at an enthusiasm she had never seen before, not even in the Captain, or Phlox himself. Instead though she nodded, stood and smiled almost as wide as the young Denobulan seemed to constantly.

"If you insist and it's not too much bother…"

"No, no, not at all. I've been working on a cure for the human version of the Denobulan nasal infections and virus of the second winters of Ashtof that one in every two thousand or so who live on that continent catch on our planet in the third cycle of our deepest winter almost every year, with the exception of the late fall of the second moon, two decades ago, of course."

Hoshi had been ready to move forward with the trainee doctor but stopping in pure silent bafflement.

"I believe they call it a 'cold' here on Earth."

Without missing a beat she carried on walking.

. . . . . . .

He was not sure why but Jonathan was more than entirely nervous about leaving T'Pol alone in his apartment for the few hours it would take him to commute back and forth to the vets to collect Porthos after his last bout of treatment. It wasn't she who injected the quiver of apprehension in him though, not necessarily, and what did remained unknown to him as he stood at the open front door in a cool breeze that swept and ducked with skilful grace down the brown corridor he was about to make his exit in.

"You sure you won't come?"

She nodded, entirely sure herself, unlike him. In fact she urged him and encouraged him insistently to leave her and his place for a while.

"It would be best I think if I kept a low profile for now, considering the circumstances of our species' current relationship together, and what occurred from the last time we came across an example of it."

There was no fair retaliation to her argument and he nodded grudgingly, barely, as he faced out once again into the airy corridor and down to the dull steel lift at the cold narrow end.

"Well, if you're sure…"

She raised her palm and made rare physical contact with him, pushing his away slightly at the shoulder as a gentle forward prompt, which he eventually took heed of as he nodded subconsciously again and allowed her without another word to shut the door behind him.

She kept her bearings at the handsome pine door until she heard a light rustle of loose trousers and the taking off of slow but purpose built footsteps down the corridor, to which she nodded and was satisfied that he had at last left.

For a moment after she was unsure of the silence that quickly took hold of the stationary space around her. Although at the most it had only ever been herself and Jonathan that had lived in the apartment together for the week and a half she had been a guest here, it always seemed that in the background there was some great volume of commotion and noise taking place, enough for a crowd of seven perhaps to be making.

Whether it be Jonathan taking charge and making a mess of the kitchen (where he did most of his fury felt swearing), or his constant persuasion to get her to watch a Quentin Tarantino movie to 'enlighten her on the art of movie directing at its best', or even Porthos whining at her feet, testing his luck to see if T'Pol was as generous with affection towards him as Hoshi, there would always be something to tease the ear.

Now there was nothing, save the sanctuary sound of scattered traces of nature in the streets outside and the stiff settlings of the building and its archaic structure of solid brick and gleaming varnished wood.

There was little for her to do now. The afternoon had reached its mid-life, the clock rounding slowly towards a sunny four o'clock. Of Jonathan's vast collection of books she had now read a fair few, and of his even greater span of movies she found no interest for them. She was neither tired nor hungry nor had any desire to go out or to meditate. She hadn't even the dog to walk. In affect, to put it in very human-like terms, she was bored with nothing to do.

On Jonathan's coffee table sat a copy of _'The Picture Of Dorian Grey'. _On and off she had been reading it for the past few days and was only a few chapters from the end. She found Oscar Wilde and his work intriguing, for a human, and so deemed him well enough to save her from a complete afternoon of nothing but sitting or meditating.

Carefully she settled herself on the cool of the cream couch, her legs tucking neatly under her torso and her body leant against one of the cushy arms as she took up the copy of the book from the table in front of her and began to read.

It would perhaps only save her from doing nothing of interest for a few minutes, fifteen at the most, but she found it illogical to churn her way through the entire novel and leave the last few chapters unread. It would have been finished by last night had Jonathan not insisted on taking her out with him for groceries, despite her lingering wariness to venture into the public crowds of humans right now.

Outside in the dim corridor there was a rattling of footsteps. It was another sound commonplace in this set-up of apartments (as well as every other she wagered) that T'Pol had gradually gotten use to hearing, to the point where she would take no heed of the once distracting echo of noise. She had discovered that few humans, more particularly males, were light footed in their saunters.

Her eyes began to skim the yellow pages of the book when the clutter of footsteps from heavy boots stopped after thundering what she could only guess the entire way down the corridor. They sounded close by any standards anyway, and Jonathan's quaint apartment was the second last of a row of twenty.

Rather tentatively her slim, long-nailed fingers turned the fragile ageing pages of the story. A billow of the book's musky scent shot up T'Pol's nose but she ignored it as she read on. Outside in the corridor she could hear the beginnings of a grumbling protest come from whom she could again only guess to be the boot-wearer, perhaps locked outside his own apartment. The habit of humans losing something as essential as the key to access their own homes baffled T'Pol somewhat, yet then again so did most commonplace human habits.

She tossed another pages and the muttering grew louder, more agitated and much sharper in tone and volume.

Then suddenly as T'Pol flicked her fingers to turn another page an almighty hail of vengeful thundering fists came down on the front door of Jonathan's apartment that shook the very walls around the wooden frame and even a little of the roof.

T'Pol did not jump at the abrupt explosion of noise or start in fright but she did draw all her attention quickly away from the novel and to the shivering panel of wood that sat fifteen feet from her immediate right. Slowly she placed the book down on the coffee table and then warily she stood up from the couch.

Not a clue came to her as on what to do. She knew humans and understood them far better than most any of her kind she knew did, but when it came down to their brasher, more unpredictable natures she still was stumped at most of the 'whys' she so often found herself rhetorically asking.

Neither was she still very sure of common social behaviour in humans and she did not know whether abusing someone's front door to such a degree that the wood began to show signs of breaking, as her caller was doing, was considered an acceptable way of gaining someone's attention or was indeed an act of violence on an inanimate object.

And whether she was allowed to answer the door in someone else's territory was also something she was unsure of, but at this moment in time tempted to do.

There was a thing on the door called a 'peephole' that T'Pol knew about and knew was for the security of being able to see who you were opening up your door to without whomever it was at the other side ever seeing you. She thought to use it to her advantage here.

Although humans were now generally a peaceful race, not engaging in war for decades, T'Pol knew a collect amount of individuals were still prone to the lust for violence and with a mind disturbed enough to want to hurt or kill without actually being provoked to do so. She could only assume in thinking to the extreme, from the violence of the pounding on the other side of the entrance to the apartment, that her visitor could be as volatile in whatever way as some of these individuals.

As she rose on the tips of her feet to place her eye to the peephole T'Pol began to consider if it was really entirely necessary that she answer this caller, no mater how urgent he sounded to get in.

She could make out very little from the distorted picture the hole offered her save the figure of a rather young looking, gauntly structured and grey-haired man. His face remained low enough so that all she could really catch of his features were a set of fierce hazel eyes and a rather distinct, evenly shaped nose. She even dared to consider that there were resemblances between this man and Jonathan.

This was enough eventually, after feeling her eardrums curl painfully under the blaring noise of this constant banging, to prompt her to open the door to the caller.

There was surprise from both as T'Pol carefully opened the door, when the young grey-haired man stumbled forward ungainly into the pleasant cool of Jonathan's apartment and the silent, hard staring wake of T'Pol.

"Can I help you?"

There was little doubt now in T'Pol that this man was related to Jonathan in some way, perhaps another cousin, as the resemblance, although not obvious was clearly evident in his critical eyes and flaring nose. He was also sporting some looks that almost mirrored exactly the same ones Jonathan had flashed T'Pol when first he had laid his once spiteful eyes on her seven years ago.

"So, this is the Vulcan."

There was a constant heavy intake and exhale of breath from the man's slightly curved nose that reflected his disgruntled and restless nature. Although his body and face were young his voice held a pitch of fault in it, something that marked him as either older than his years in mind or slightly mentally removed from others. Either way T'Pol allowed herself to assume he was not entirely in a correct frame of mind.

There was also the lack of freshness that should have glowed from someone that looked to be only in his mid-twenties. It was clearly and sadly absent and had perhaps been replaced right now by the obvious hatred and disgust he emitted on every syllable he uttered.

"Jon home?"

T'Pol's instincts begged her to take a step back but instead she kept intact her poise and her will to stay where she stood, inches from the musky scent that billowed steadily from the breath that escaped the man's nostrils.

"I'm afraid not, but he will be back later. Can I take a message for you?"

She might as well have uttered every cuss under the shrivelled suns of Salanacon she could to his face with no shame or care for the utter putrid look of detest and wretched hatred he gave her back.

"No Vulcan takin' no message for Paul. Ah'll wait."

And it seemed he would be. He brushed T'Pol aside with the pleasure of tipping her balance slightly and moved to the couch where he sunk down and sat without moving, his eyes glazed and fixed stubbornly on the blank wide screen television in front of him.

Paul. She allowed one sentence to ring sharply and clearly through her memory now as she heeded the name -_ "Cause you _know_ he'd be to the Vulcans what Hitler was to the Jews, if he could."___

Although this was an exaggeration, she was sure by Richard, it would be an exaggeration for a reason, and she knew enough of a one Adolf Hitler and the Second World War of Earth to know that the exaggeration expressed some level of utmost hatred in the man.

The door remained ajar and swung lazily back and forth on the breeze that continued to sweep the outside corridor. Knowing of nothing better to do for the moment with no solutions on how to contain the situation coming to mind, she simply went to shut it, figuring it was airy enough in the apartment already.

"Don't, move."

Slowly her left foot landed back on the floor as she came out of mid-stride. She turned cautiously, never quite hearing such a dangerous and smooth tone in a human before. The phase pistol he held at a languid arms length served to emphasise it.

His crude eyes remained trained on the blank television, darting back and forth as if there was something of amazing speed on the screen to watch, but all there was for now were the black and grey reflections of Paul and to one curved side a stationary T'Pol. She refused, however, to be fazed by him.

"Are you Jonathan's uncle?"

In the reflection of the screen T'Pol watched his hazel eyes narrow to wrinkled slits, and again he seemed to lose more of his youth to the strange, crazed air he possessed.

"Y' know too much, y' speak too much an'- hey, where're yer blinkin' ears? Have 'em out where ah can see 'em hon'!"

T'Pol raised her arm jerkily with her brow unsure, drawing her own attention to her head of shoulder length hair as Paul did. She touched tentatively on the curtains of hair that kept her torn and scarred ears out of sight.

"There is no harm that my ears can do to--"

His phase pistol hummed gently as he fooled about with triggers and catches. "Do it."

With every inch of reluctance she eventually did, quickly brushing away the coarse hair at the sides of her head and exposing the tattered tips of her once finely structured ears. Paul turned around slowly, shifting noisily on the couch. His face lit up with the youth it was missing as he locked his sights onto the permanent damage.

"What clever bugger did that then?"

She did not answer, and for all the illogical and irrational intent there was in this man he knew he would not get an answer for that. It no more spoiled his joys.

"May I suggest you put the phase pistol down and perhaps we can talk?"

Slowly she was moving to the tact of negotiating, seeing no other way that she could rationalise with a human such as this. She also had to distract him she felt, hopefully from what she wagered were violent intents.

The irony of the situation rose to her attention for a brief moment, of how she had stayed in to _avoid_ the dangerous prejudice of humans, but she brushed it hastily to the side and kept her will and her attention focused on Paul.

"I wish you no harm or insult, I am simply a guest in your nephew's home."

Her eyes itched to flicker over to the kitchen where she knew in one stiff drawer Jonathan kept his own phase pistol for general peace of mind. It would be beyond risky and illogical though to reach for it, as she would have to make a sprint of several dozen feet to get to it. She figured Paul could shoot her torso a fair few times before then, and she had suffered that abuse enough to want try everything available to avoid it happening again.

A nasty grin spread slowly across the width of Paul's dry cracked lips. He sneered at her pleas of negotiation. Quite clearly he cared neither way whether she was a guest in his nephew's home or the owner of it, all he let roll around in his mind was an insane, dark hatred, diluted in no way, which pointed solely at T'Pol who for now was representing the whole of the race he despised so much.

"Guest. Don' like that word much. Just means you're here 'cause he's bein' polite to ya, nothin' more. No way's ma boy Jonny gonna want a Vulcan 'guest' in his home. Not now, not eva."

The phase pistol began a dance between the man's long rugged fingers, his chipped and battered nails scratching lightly at the silver metallic surface and picking at its many crevices and holes as he twirled it aimlessly in his loose hold.

"Ya gonna leave now?"

A blank stare emitted from T'Pol's gaze and Paul turned on her again, frustrated at her silence.

"Well?"

"No."

"On ma death bed ye aint not goin'. Where's Jon?"

She had never met a human quite like him. "He's out, and will be back later. I was not informed when."

"Well scoot, ah aint lettin' the place be infested by leaf eatin', no smiling no carin' space alien trash. Go!"

T'Pol was unsure if it was wise to hold her ground but not an inch of her willed her to move. She continued to provoke her guest's slim patience as so.

"I will not leave"

From the depth of his throat he growled. "Right."

Paul got up, his pistol held steady and balanced finely in his left hand. With the raw wave of hatred and determination that ran through his dark hazel gaze T'Pol saw caution and talk as no plausible option now. So before giving him the chance to gather enough sense to figure how to shoot straight she lunged for the kitchen threw herself down behind the pine worktop units and wrapped her hand tightly around the handle of the stiff drawer where Jonathan's pistol lay dormant. With a ripple of strength down the taut muscles of her arm she yanked forward the stubborn box of wood and it flew over her head just as shots of burning red plasma began to skid across the worktops.

Her own weapon, in the fierceness of her pulling the drawer from where it sat, soared across the kitchen's laminate floor towards the end of the rows of units, and so she lunged forward quickly on her knees before it escaped from her valley of shields. The nose of the pistol poked out from behind the units just before she was able to rescue it and as quick as T'Pol could apprehend that he would react Paul spotted it and shot recklessly at it. One small rogue beam skated over the top of her hand and seared the skin from her knuckles, painting a spattering of her dark green blood across the brilliant white lino. There was an ear piercing cry of victory from Paul before T'Pol grabbed the gun, immediately ignoring the pain, and threw herself backwards and up against the units again, tucking in as far from the shooting range as was possible.

She had fought off Klingons, Salan, Suliban and Xindi, to name only the worst of many; how a human had managed to win such an upper hand so quickly baffled her beyond expression and always would.

She allowed herself to be puzzled only for a moment though as suddenly the apartment was drowned in a chilling silence. The shots had stopped with the wild laughter of sick pleasure. There was no movement of clothes, no footsteps, no shuffling on the couch. Not even a heavy breath from his nose rattled the air of the room. And it was all so sudden.

Almost too tightly T'Pol's uninjured hand wrapped itself around the slim black handle of the phase pistol. Her index finger tensed on the trigger and she checked that it was on stun.

Her ears may have been torn to shreds but the inner structures of them were as finely tuned to hear even the most delicate of noises as they had ever been. She kept her breath at bay in her dry throat as she listened. No human could go completely unheard. He would have to give her something.

He sneezed, and as the sound shattered the false lull T'Pol leapt up from her crouched position with spectacular speed and threw herself forward as Paul's phase pistol destroyed the tiles around the place she had sat on only seconds ago. His weapon was set on kill.

She shot to her legs to stand. The gun was thrown in front of her, positioned at his head and as he climbed off the worktop to straighten himself up T'Pol hollered a "Don't move!" and commanded with the danger that flickered in her eyes alone that he freeze.

" I suggest you leave, before I am either forced to shoot you or Jonathan comes back home and does so himself. I am his guest, his friend and his colleague; I have little doubt he will hesitate to do so."

She was unsure of whether he was actually listening or whether he had abandoned heed of everything she was saying now. His gun was brought to rest though on the worktop before he crept around the units and slowly, menacingly advanced on her, his dry, cruel smile brought back to play on his thin lips again.

"Ah may come from the house of the whacked darlin', but ah know ma nephew, an' ah know when he hates somethin' as much as his good Uncle Paul does. Ah know that if he did _ever_ liked you it's only 'cause you remind him o' somethin', someone, or he's forgotten what scum you originate from. But when he sees the bigger picture again, he'll turn on you fast as a wild dog would."

As he spoke he dared himself to inch further and further closer to the one now holding the charged weapon and the one who had the most reason and right to fire. He lusted to come nose tip to nose tip with her, and knew she wouldn't shoot unless he gave her reason to, as was the Vulcan way. He had such initiative and wisdom and a shrewdly true insight into other people's minds that many thought it was such a terrible waste of psychology on a man who didn't know how to tie his own shoelaces or distinguish his left from right.

Right now he felt he was able to sense, almost touch even the confusion that radiated from his Vulcan friend, and he wagered also that he was detecting hurt and angst from barely visible emotions.

Now he did have his distinguished nose tip at her face, only centimetres from the bridge of her own olive nose. "What did y' think maybe he'd love ya? Y' Vulcans are an amusin' lot. Don't make me like ya anymore though."

And on that sour note his large bony fist swung and landed in T'Pol's eye socket faster than she could block. It was the only hit he got in though before he foolishly tried to take another swing for the thrill it injected into him and found himself instead half way across the kitchen with a bloody nose.

"Get out."

He was fast in stumbling back to his flat feat with an ungainly smile and a smooth, taunting laugh that shivered up from the back of his throat. A sliver of blood escaped his flared nostrils and created a spatter diagonal with the spray of T'Pol's own green fluids from her burnt knuckles.

She quickly reached across the worktop and took his abandoned pistol, disabling it with her injured thumb. Jonathan's gun stayed warm in her good hand as it generated a quiet steady hum and stayed with its nose pointed to Paul's torso.

"I will not shoot if you leave."

He was still laughing but it seemed almost to himself now as he muttered quiet cusses and spite under his smiling lips as well.

"She says she wont shoot, but they said they wouldn't retaliate. Three boys dead, because they said they wouldn't shoot. But it's okay, 'cause she won't smile and laugh about it at least. Wont cry either. Makes it even better."

If she hadn't exceptional hearing she mightn't have heard his chilling whispers, but she did and she only urged her prompt for him to leave further. She began to step forward, forcing him, his whispers and his smile to back into the front door, which remained ajar.

"Come on girl, shoot me, shoot me so we can show Jonny together what a bad, bad darlin' you are."

She pushed him firmly to one side to access the door handle and as her arm braced against his side he grabbed her wrist, again faster than she could see to stop him and harder than she expected.

Something fresh entered his hazel gaze as he did so - greed, a kind of greed that she had never seen before in any of the crew she had been a member of and worked with for the past seven years.

Perhaps it frightened her, she wasn't sure, but she made haste to seize her wrist back and open the door wide, the pistol still held so tight that her fingers had slowly became a bone white.

With all manner of caution she took a steady step back and gave him free passage of the exit without uttering to him another word. She knew humans were good at reading the expression in others' eyes, and so she allowed her plain brown ones to tell him he was not welcome and that she would bear no guilt if she were pushed to putting him out, if he dared try another assault. He knew this; it was why he smiled so. It was also why he eventually left.

"Maybe it's 'cause you're feisty, maybe that's why the ol' Captain's keepin' y' aboard. Wouldn't doubt it in him, wouldn't doubt it any man, any man wae the wits to fancy the right sex anyway."

He made to carry on with his drabble and twang but there wasn't a second after his feet stepped out into the domain of the brown corridor that T'Pol wasted in shutting and locking the door.

"G'dnight!"

There was a moment of nothing in the apartment, T'Pol didn't move and there wasn't a thing with the nerve to break the tension in the room. And then she listened to Paul take leave down the corridor and her back fell against the door, her eyes closing over as she allowed herself to catch up with what had just happened.

Along the wall to her right was one of two doors, the one furthest from her, lying slightly ajar being the door that led to the room she had taken up residency in for the past peaceful week. In a grand oak wardrobe was her suitcase and in the wardrobe also along with drawers and cupboards was a scattered collection of her clothes, her every day wear and more formal robes and tunics.

She thought perhaps now, as she made her way to the room, it was time to swallow her Vulcan pride and pack up for returning back to the Compound.

. . . . . . .

A small whine echoed through the lift that rose shakily up to Jonathan's apartment, a whine sounding more for sympathy that to express pain.

Porthos was pathetically cute and pitiful looking by any man's standards in his beloved owner's arms, with a cone cloaked around his chubby neck and a cast around his abused leg made too big so that he hadn't the chance to walk gracefully.

He had been in and out of the vets for the past week and his watery brown eyes expressed well his confusion and protest to the constant change between being home to being in a strange, musky smelling cage to being home again.

Jonathan at the best of times could not resist his dog's whims, and so now he had little choice but to cave in to the pledges of Porthos and spoil him in every way imaginable. With all manner of affection he massaged his fingertips into the back of the little beagle's velvety ears and even kissed him briefly a few times on the crown of his head. Porthos was all too content to sit back and let the hail of affection come to him without the effort of having to seek it out.

"Don't expect much sympathy from T'Pol mind you. I'm sure that's still classed as an emotion."

Jonathan mused quietly to his dog as the lift reached the twelfth floor and opened up to the couple the brown corridor that would lead down to his apartment.

"But we'll see if she's not in a more sociable mood anyway, eh?"

Porthos raised his rough pink tongue to his owner's nose, an action made difficult and ungainly by the cone, and Jonathan repaid his with another soft scratch.

"Yeah, we'll see."

He stopped outside apartment 187, tucking Porthos securely under one arm as he searched for his keys somewhere in his trouser pockets. Almost immediately the dog began to squirm.

"Alright, give me a second boy."

Porthos seemed unwilling to do so as he struck up a verse of whines and low growls, his back legs paddling ungainly and his nose twitching like an engine.

Finally Jonathan plunged his hand into one of his back pockets and revived his card key triumphantly. Still struggling with Porthos he placed it in the one thing that gave it away that this was not an apartment of the old days - a small silver box laced onto one of the hinges of the outside door that acted as a tight security lock.

As fast as he could open the door Porthos took a spectacular dive from his owner's arms, tumbled over himself with his cast a little, quickly gathered himself up on the beige carpet and then hobbled and loped hastily over to the kitchen lino floor where he began a series of fierce barks that shook his entire small body.

His two front paws dug madly at one laminated tile, stopping only in their tracks for brief seconds at a time to bark ever more furiously at the one spot before he began clawing mercilessly again.

Jonathan stood and frowned for a moment, slowly closing over the door as he found himself utterly baffled by his dog's sudden chance in behaviour. He had only seen him react this way a few times before, and the reaction was usually cause only by certain people and other dogs being in the apartment, his pack's territory.

"Porthos, come here! Stop that now!"

Finally, placing authority in his voice and stride, Jonathan walked over to seize Porthos to detain him in the bedroom. As he scooped up the small elderly dog from his underbelly though he froze.

Porthos finally settled, content that he had alerted his alpha to the spot of intrusion. Jonathan fell to a crouch and with tentative nerves put his free hand forward to touch warily on the spot Porthos had hollered at. His fingertips dusted over a dry cross of red blood atop green.

"That's Paul, isn't it?"

Quickly with jerky haste that even startled Porthos Jonathan put his dog down and leapt across the living room to T'Pol's bedroom.

"T'Pol? _T'Pol_!"

He feared what he thought was every worst possibility, and was greeted by the single one he didn't expect.

"Jonathan?"

She welcomed him with a frown, in mid-stride from the wardrobe to the bed with both a black eye and scorched knuckles across her left hand, neither of which seemed to bother or pain her.

From wardrobe to bed she was transporting a handful of neatly piled bronze robes in her arms, which seemed destined to go into her large suitcase, which sat open and half full on the bed.

"What are you doing?" was the first question he asked but not necessarily the first he wanted to.

Suddenly their eye contact was broken as T'Pol's head tilted down slightly and she carried on to finish packing the robes.

"I have been given my quarters back at the Compound until the hearing is over, and so I have decided that it would be best if I stayed there instead, until I am allowed to return back to Vulcan. I have imposed here long enough and I apologise."

He thought he fancied catching in his sights a trace of clear, fresh tears along the bases of her dull brown eyes, but they were skilfully subdued if they were any.

As she moved to return back to the wardrobe Jonathan stopped her by carefully placing his hand firmly on her shoulder.

"What did he do? What did he say?"

Every lie she had conjured up to cover the visit from Paul evaporated on her tongue from hearing those two tenderly spoken questions of concern. So she found she could only utter a quiet 'nothing' before she moved away from him to collect the numerous cat suits she had donned over the years as her uniform on Enterprise. She knew before she said it that he was anything but convinced.

"So what, did you two have a pleasant conversation over some pecan pie and then you just happened to trip up over a phase pistol that shot back at you across your hand, and then did the classic tripping up over the carpet and hitting your eye against the coffee table trick?"

She threw him a stony look. "Do not be absurd."

"And don't be coy with me T'Pol."

She only paused for another moment, looking into the hazel eyes that almost twinned Paul's before she carried on to pack the cat suites. Abruptly he took them off her and placed them on the bed. He then closed over the suitcase. All actions were carried out almost violently, and almost desperately and painfully.

"Whatever he said, it means nothing. He could never handle my father's death properly, and he needed a vent for his confusion and anger, which ended up being the Vulcans. But you shouldn't listen to anything he says, it means nothing."

She reached behind him and lifted the lid of the case open again.

"It would still be best if I returned to the Compound."

"T'Pol…"

He shut over the case yet again and this time sat in front of it on the bed.

"If you're leaving because of whatever Paul did or said, well you're not. This is as much you're home now as you want it to be, and you're as important to me as Trip or any other good friend is."

He could only guess what he had to appeal to her, what he had to contradict from Paul, but it seemed he guessed rather accurately. She stood in front of him, for once outstripping him in height, and hardly moved or spoke, despite Jonathan's wish for some response to his pleas.

Porthos chose this moment to join them, limping languidly towards his owner who bent down and quickly scooped him up and held him carefully on his lap, posing him almost as bait again, as he had done half jokingly back at the party to reel T'Pol in to come resident with him in the first place.

"And if not for me or yourself then maybe for him? I think he needs a woman in his life, some structure in the household."

Porthos surrendered his cone clad neck onto the crook of Jonathan's arm and sighed heavily as he relaxed and settled in the warm hold. Jonathan smiled weakly.

"I hardly know if I am safe from your family."

Jonathan's smile strengthened by some small fraction, although inside he pained heavily to hear that. "As soon as I've sorted them out you will be. I always figured you could handle yourself fine anyway. You got rid of Paul, didn't you?"

She ran her right hand over her burnt left one carefully and Jonathan moved Porthos onto the bed to stand in front of her, as his attention was drawn back to what had alerted his concerns. For a moment he was distracted from begging her to stay with him.

"Let me see."

Quickly she hid her hand from his sights behind her other. "I don't know if that's entirely wise, as the last time you insisted on helping my injuries heal, it led to unfortunate consequences."

An unsure smile crept over his lips, uncertain of whether to smile at an attempt at humour or a blatant, shameless insult by the Vulcan.

"Nothing touches it but my own hands, I promise."

Understandably she remained reluctant and wary and kept her burns from sight, so instead he took a determined step forward and ran his hand under her chin, tipping her head slightly to the ceiling.

"He really socked you one." A low sigh sped out over Jonathan's lips. "I'm sorry."

She pulled back, unwilling to be seen so close to, and ran her fingertips over the lid of the suitcase slowly. "There is no need for you to apologise, you were not the one who provoked his actions, or carried them out."

The lid was tipped open again and she moved a collection of neatly folded airy cotton tops from the bed into the case beside her robes.

"The hearing is in two days, Admiral Forrest phoned to inform me. It will take place in the Compound at noon, it only makes sense that I stay there until I am needed to plea my case."

He almost growled as his dark brow dropped sharply in a frustrated frown. "And I'd let you go if I knew that was the real reason you were leaving, but it's not. I've changed T'Pol; you of all people should know that. My family are wrong about the Vulcans, and I was wrong with them, but I know better now. I'm not saying I'm a fan, but I respect you, and your race, and to hell now with what Paul or Richard or Edwyn think. I know my dad would have moved on by now, and he would have liked you."

She managed to latch onto his eyes for a brief moment with her own on the last comment, before she broke the contact again and stood almost uncomfortably now, looking almost guiltily at the suitcase.

"The High Command would also rather I was at the Compound, to keep me under close surveillance. Soval at least has suggested such pledges."

"Soval also suggested you go back to Vulcan instead of coming with the Enterprise into the Expanse. I don't remember you bending to his whim then."

Very nearly Jonathan smiled again, a dark twist of the lips it would have been, but he kept the expression locked and titled his head carefully to one side, ducking a little so that maybe he could catch T'Pol's eye again.

She was thinking, furiously, although he knew she was keen on only one possibility, even if he were to boast that the answer was she wanted to stay with him.

"I would have to cancel the reservations for my quarters."

"Easily done."

"And it will not bode will with Soval or any of my previous superiors if I declare I am keeping residency here."

"I'd be surprised if it did."

"Yet I don't believe they can force me by any law to stay there."

Finally the grin with the twist of dark, petty triumph crossed his lips. "Want me to phone Forrest?"

She leant over the bed again and tipped the lid of the case shut. "That's alright. I think it would be best if Soval heard from myself that I have no intention of following his 'whims' until the hearing, and wish instead to fraternise with a race he in turn is not too wholly keen on."


	9. Shards of the Past

_A.N_

Note to self: probably shouldn't leave story hanging for a fortnight again. At least I know what American weather is like now. You have a very (very) hot sun. Shall keep that in mind for future references to San Francisco weather anyway.

No, I didn't think Paul would be a very popular character, or the other Archers in general. But it seems that you forget most all families have at least two sides, and I've only toyed about with the father's side so far… (A really big hint for the upcoming chapter there).

I knew Aldon would be much liked though –_smile_–

As for Paul's accent. Well I never had an accent in mind for him, it's just meant really to be a conveying of his loose tongue, to hint the slight edge of madness in him. I wouldn't say it was Scottish though, Southern I suppose, if anything, a slight Southern twang.

And it's nice when people quote specific pieces of the story, I don't know why but I like it, so thanks _Karen Elizabeth, _for the few times you've done that now.

(Be warned, this chapter has somewhat of a weak ending to it).

. . . . . . .

_-Two Years Ago-_

The Cargo Bay still clung somewhat desperately to the putrid scents of charred skin, of twisted and violated metal, of foreign, poisoned blood and most prominently fear.

They had found the shuttlepod in a dire, wholly wretched state. It was no more than a discarded lump of metal drifting in an unoccupied region of space, where the nearest inhabited planet would take a lifetime for the crew of three who had been abandoned on this shuttlepod to reach.

They hadn't had a lifetime to spare though, before the Enterprise had come across their presence. They'd had mere days. Torturous days that were designed for their weary, bruised eyes to watch as the life support slowly drain away with their will, their fight and their desire and spirit to carry on.

So it was entirely fortunate that the Enterprise had found them.

"Life signs?"

Captain Archer turned to his Science Officer who expressed one of her subtle flickers of doubt across the tongue as she reported. "Three sir, all… Andorians, with weak bio signs."

Briskly, not daring to show even a mocking trace of his own surprise he nodded and turned to his Helms Officer. "Deploy the grappler and bring it in." Communication seemed not to be on his mind right now. "Lieutenant, Sub Commander."

He need only glance briefly at the two to reel them forward at his heal.

At the doorway to the Cargo Bay the Captain paused. His two officers neither said a thing nor prompted him to carry on forward quickly through the doors.

He didn't say it, certainly not with T'Pol in his midst, but already he had been persuaded with the mess that he had just witnessed on screen that the Vulcans had something to do with this situation – something rather crucial and absurd.

T'Pol concluded nothing until she had seen the situation, and Malcolm stood poised with his pistol and his hand over the lock. Finally, in the wake of a long, chilled silence Archer nodded for him to open the door.

There was very little that could be read clearly from Shran's face and his battered and shadowed features as the three appeared in the doorway, save a deep, grudging gratitude as he stood up shakily from tumbling out of the crushed door of his pod, and then a hatred that was directed at no one in particular in the room, but burned slow and steady in his sharp, yellow eyes and seemed permanently stained there. His own two officers soon followed him out on their burnt and weak legs and Archer again signalled to Malcolm, this time to call sickbay.

With no hesitation, no mistrust as he once had for Shran, Archer walked up to him, leaving T'Pol at the door with Malcolm, and offered forth his hand to the Andorian. There might have been a smile across his blue lips, if not for the fact he had just escaped by luck alone a dire and unjust situation.

"Captain." His next words ran through predicted in Archer's mind before he had even the time to drawn the breath to speak them. "We need to talk."

. . . . . . .

One Andorian officer was suffering the daunting turmoil of internal bleeding. He remained bound in sickbay, protests and complaints aside, and the remaining one of Shran's men, one who miraculously donned only scrapes and burn, stood at his side in the conference room with the Captain and the Vulcan, who were ready to listen to what he had to tell them.

"It seems the debt lies back in my court Captain. I owe you my life several times over for this one I believe."

A weak, genuine smile graced Archer's sombre face in a wavering curl of his pale lips. "When I need it I'll call it up."

Shran nodded slowly, failing to smile himself but understanding the dry humour the Captain was quirking at. He then leant over the icy cold surface of the conference table and levelled his stony gaze with the First Officer who sat to the Captain's right.

"You Vulcans can cause a lot more problems and grief that you're aware of."

As T'Pol kept a stern silence in her throat and in her calm, dull eyes Archer leant over the table in turn with Shran.

"What happened?"

Briskly Shran sat back up, his nose raised in a tilt of pride as he carefully removed his gaze from T'Pol, who showed no signs of breaking her own solid eye contact until he did.

"There was a whole fleet of us you know. I had a crew of fifty-four, and we three are now all that's left. Rather sad, you must admit."

Archer frowned, staying bent a few inches over the table, his eyes sharp and focused on Shran, but still fully aware of the Sub Commander on his right.

"The Vulcans wouldn't destroy a whole ship and crew."

A harsh smile scarred the lips of Shran as a crude delight flickered over his eyes. "No, no they wouldn't, you're right. They're capable of it, and I wouldn't doubt it in them any time in the future, but no, the Vulcans are not directly to blame for this one."

Those cruel, hurt eyes latched on once again to T'Pol as he stressed the 'directly' and Archer allowed the man to carry on without questioning his cryptic words.

"You know, when you try to convince your own people that maybe, perhaps, there are a few rare individuals who manage to evade the stereotype you have grown to resent so much, you become a very unpopular man."

A little of T'Pol's unfazed expression faltered. Archer's brow deepened, almost to become a permanent feature on his grey shadowed face. These two comments were left to hang in the room and in their minds though as Shran moved into his explanation.

"We, the fifty-four, were send out by our Government for a simple enough task, to carry on our 'peaceful' negotiations with the Vulcans. We decided we would seek out your ship Archer, as you and your Science Officer have… boded us well, I will admit, in the past. The mission hardly remained the secrete it was meant to though."

There was a suffering silence, brought out long and hard as Shran leant languidly back in his chair and ran his fingertips carefully over a deep bloody groove in his forehead. His remaining officer, who sat there more just listening than anything, kept a highly suspicious pair of hot golden eyes locked on T'Pol. She cared little for the extra dose of attention and a few times Archer frowned at him irritably, but neither could bring themselves to chide him.

"There are many who, understandably," he barely made the eye contact again with T'Pol, but it was a flicker of the lids long enough to look accusing, "do not want to see peace made with the Vulcans. Many want to see a war, a fight for justice and ultimately for pride. I have no doubt this idea runs both ways with the Vulcans as well, even if they do not care to admit it."

A tremor ran through the room, a growl seemed almost whispered on the cool, hostile air. Archer turned slowly to T'Pol, who sat back in her chair with her arms crossed and her eyes scolded.

"We do not wish war with the Andorians."

"No, _you_ do not wish it Sub Commander, but how long has it been since you were back with your own people?"

She allowed him no answer to that.

"Too long I imagine."

Archer was close to taking up a defence for his First Officer but Shran sailed on with his words.

"Anyway. A rebel faction was set up – it was only a matter of time after the news got out that the government was working towards peace with the Vulcans that one would be. They are small, but they are powerful." He shivered as he said it. "They have inside operatives in every possible post imaginable, they have weapons and ships and strong, capable men, as well as good, stable leadership. They are not mindless fighters or morons. They have tact and subtlety, and have taken down tens of Andorians with important status in these peace treaties already."

After a small pause a wave of white-hot bitterness flooded Shran's voice. "One of my own men was an insider. I knew each of my crew as well as I do my own blood family, and yet he missed my attention, and so I emphasises how good their tact is."

Countless questions were raised to Archer's attention. He hardly uttered a heavy breath however until Shran was finished.

"They haven't got a name and each member has their own personal reasons for joining. You are not recruited unless you have been 'affected' by the Vulcans personally. They have veterans and they have children. Orphans, loved ones, the poor, the rich, the respected and the undermined. Their spread of members reaches every class and level of our society. They… put the Imperial Guard to shame, and have done so on several occasions now."

Still Archer and T'Pol said nothing and Shran was free to continue.

"I must admit to you, if they weren't taking out Andorians as well as Vulcans I perhaps wouldn't be so bothered by this faction and its threat. As it is, they took down my entire ship, and almost every member of my crew with it. So I will admit, before it is accused, that things have gotten personal now as well."

Shran was, thereafter content to watch T'Pol's reaction. She gave him nothing however, nothing obvious.

"There's word that they're after the Enterprise now. It's their next predominant target. Their next project, if you like."

All three spun somewhat heavily on the freshly spoken Andorian officer. Slowly Shran dispensed from his face a glower that had flared up over his blond brow as he turned back to the Captain calmly.

"_That_, I was going to tell you later. But yes, there is the strong possibility that they are coming to dispose of yourself and your Vulcan, Captain. And they will do no less than kill you, I can assure you of that, by whatever means."

Archer had in his time as Captain of the NX-01 received more than an average amount of death threats for a lifetime. But none had ever been spoken of quite so calmly, and none had threatened his First Officer as well.

He stood up. "I'm not entirely sure if I'm hearing this."

T'Pol had been counting the seconds before he would stand up and begin such a speech of doubt and outrage. This time though, she had little to protest in him doing so.

"You're telling me that there's an Andorian Mafia running around space, with a price on T'Pol's and my head, and that you don't even have a name for these people? How are we supposed to defend ourselves against an invisible enemy? Or have you just come to give us the confirmation of our deaths?"

Shran did not stand up for the simple reason that he was suffering from a deep tearing of skin across his pain-ridden knees, but he did scowl with a heated anger as the Captain began to pace back and forth in front of him from across the table.

"You're lucky even to receive this warning! By all rights, if they knew we were still alive, which they will discover sooner or later, we would be killed for having this meeting alone. We have given you a heads up that no one would ever dare risk giving you. And you scorn us for not providing enough information?"

As Archer passed the back of his First Officer's chair again she twisted in her seat and grabbed lightly at one of the tense wrists of the pacing Captain. It was the fact that she made this bodily contact that normal she should would not have considering doing that alone made him stop instantly and lock his gaze questioningly on hers.

"They have done all they can for us. We must take responsibility for our own lives now."

Hearing such a statement pained him. It was too much like receiving a wakeup call by the truth and reality of such a certain and close death, even one he doubted so.

With some flicker of an apologetic gaze Archer turned back to Shran and wearily sat back on the chair opposite of the Andorian.

"Thank you, for your help. We'll see to it that you're home safe again."

. . . . . . .

Nothing ever came of that warning. The Enterprise was never hunted down by a rebel faction of Andorians, and Archer and T'Pol were never killed.

And never had many more than a few days gone by at any one time where Jonathan did not think of what Shran had told him, and if these renegades weren't still to this day tracking their kill.

It was during a cool breezy morning that Jonathan chose for today to contemplate this memory and allow it to haunt him ever so slightly through the quick rising of the sun. He was not a man afraid to admit, at least to himself, when he was afraid.

With great skill he balanced a bowl of cereal on one bony knee, whilst trying now to preoccupy himself from the past after pondering it for an hour or so with the television remote and his thousands of channels. He also kept a keen eye on the clock.

It was late morning, only just shy of noon. He was the only one awake though, as Porthos had grown lazy with his injury and age, and to the very best of his knowledge T'Pol was still asleep as well.

After seven years of failing every morning to beat her to the bridge on the Alpha shift, unless she had good reason to be late, it sat oddly with him that he should be up and awake before her. For now though he would dare to do no more than leave her be.

There was no amount of words that could describe the love Jonathan had for his time off from Starfleet. He was direly wanted back by many factions and superiors there, but he was entitled to a month off before it became compulsory once again for him to reply to a call of duty. And as much as his work had become his life and his pride, there was little that would remove him from his planned schedule of doing little or doing activities only as he pleased for the next month.

An idea had occurred to him on what to do today. It involved the cooperation of T'Pol, and her trust, but he felt it was something that would pay well to do, in light of recent (yesterday's) events.

Today was a mild day, with a sweet scent in the air and a freshness in the winds, and a pale sun with a comforting warmth that seeped through the bare window in the kitchen and living room. He wondered if it wouldn't hurt to take a walk with her as well, if he could convince her suspicious nature that no further harm would come to her intentionally if he took her to a park, or a reserve even.

A door opened quietly and he became – as his muses were forgotten – no longer the only one awake. It seemed it had been this way for a while though. She was fully dressed, and there was no lingering of fatigue in her eyes, or a stiffness in her movements.

"Morning."

She nodded silently back, saying nothing, although he knew she was not being rude, just herself, and made her way into the sun-dashed kitchen without any intention of opening herself to conversation.

She discovered a scattering of crumbs on the worktop as she stood to make her breakfast, the remnants of two slices of toast, and a smear of yellow butter across an abandoned plate, which held a faint, alluring scent of jam on it as well. There was also a brown ring from a mug of coffee, and a splash of pale warm milk beside it.

Slightly to the left of the small, neat mess were smoky scorch marks and at her bare feet a pile of broken and torn tiles. The kitchen, along with T'Pol's eye and knuckles, still bore the scars of Uncle Paul's visit.

"Can I ask you something?"

T'Pol found that she had been staring somewhat aimlessly at the destruction for a few moment, and with a jerk raised her attentions back to Jonathan again, who had turned on the couch 180 degrees to face his guest. There was a quiver of a smile on his lips and in his eyes as well.

"Well, I haven't seen my mum since I came home, and I promised her that the minute we landed I'd go pay her a visit. She sent me a message last night and wants me to come around today, and I was just wondering if you didn't want to join me?"

T'Pol had been reaching for the back corner of a cupboard on the ivory tiled wall that bore all the Vulcan food Jonathan had bought her, but she stopped her hands from taking anything edible as he cautiously asked the question. Slowly she fell from her tiptoes and stood to face the man she owed her current living quarters to.

"Why?"

She said it perhaps a little flatly, and blatantly, but it was only a query, he knew. He found he had developed something of an ear for picking up on the different subtle tones of T'Pol's evenly spoken voice that would often determine her first attitude towards something. It was an ear he knew Hoshi would be envious of.

"Well, it's a two hour drive for a start, to her home, so the company would be nice."

He smiled again, and shaved off the tease that was so desperate to paint the edges of his lips. It took only a few seconds for a more sincere look to settle back in his docile eyes.

"And I'd like you to meet her."

He waited for her doubt and objection, and it came in a familiar raise of her brow, so he stood up and then across the units from T'Pol.

"I'll admit, you haven't met the best side of my family yet, but we're not all bent on hatred over my father's death. At least I can assure you we're not all like my Uncle Paul. My mum handled things a lot better than his brothers did, and she'll only hate you if you're bad to her son."

He fancied he witnessed the fleeting glance of convincement in T'Pol's features.

"Then you had better fail to mention the several times I have operated a Nerve Pinch or a phase pistol on you."

He fancied that as humour, humour as dry as a bone, but at least a fair stab at the human trait and habit.

"What time do you propose we leave?"

He beamed, then spilt a quick glance over his boxer short clad figure, and only then remembered that this was all he donned. The hot crimson blush ran like wild fire from his neck to his nose.

"As soon as you've eaten, and I'm dressed."

. . . . . . .

He was mad, although this was perhaps a grave and insulting understatement. He told himself, assured himself through and through that when he eventually came across her again in the morning after the afternoon they were meant to meet in the gardens, that he would show no leniency in scowling her and making her swell in guilt at never showing up.

He had been so excited, for lack of any better expression that would convey how truly happy and thrilled he was after making the final arrangements with his brother and the Horizon. He had wanted to wait no longer than a few hours before he could tell Hoshi the news, and had barely managed the self-control to sit at peace whilst he had waited for her on a stone bench under a blossoming oak tree. But she never showed.

His quarters had been cast in a harsh, bitter silence in the wake of the morning hours. He sat quietly on his bed as he laid out in front of him rolls of clean white paper and bundles of inky black pens, along with several tens of PADDs he had collected over the years on Enterprise of the star charts of every sector they had ever explored in detail. He planned to copy them out co-ordinate for co-ordinate on paper, the old-fashioned way. It was a way to bide the time, and also to rekindle a long lost but much loved hobby that had begun on the Horizon but seemed to have faded with his years on Enterprise.

To some, most it fact really, drawing out in hand in such detail such precise and large scale maps would have been more a chore than a pastime, a dreaded task that naughty children were made to do at school as punishment, or the unfortunate Ensign in training, when he had no power to argue the job.

But this was Travis's art. He had never had much of an eye for drawing, and never an ear for music or the confidence for drama. But he had the utter skill of attention to detail and patience of time for such an abstract and beautiful trait as penning out star charts.

In time it made him forget. He cruised the hours between nine and eleven simply sketching the basics of one sector, eyeing out the vital co-ordinates and calculating angles and scales. At best this one sector alone, if done well, would take him the duration of a week. He would be gone from Starfleet before a week though, if things were kept well as planned and negotiated.

It was noon before Travis took heed of the time again, and he only took heed of the time because it was at noon that there was a caller at his door.

The pink undertones of his hands bore thick dry blotches of ebony pen ink, and his forefinger on his right hand was heavily indented and slightly red. He flicked his wrist and found it stiff and realised the legs under his torso had slowly died away and his back was straining just to straighten up.

"Just a second."

Although he found great pain in uncurling from the same position he had kept himself tacked up in for close to three hours now, when he took a better look at his work in progress so far he couldn't help but grin slightly in modest pride.

He then blinked furiously to coax his eyes into better focus on the room around him before he leapt over to the door. In all truth he had forgotten about Hoshi.

"Oh…"

There seemed shameless disappointment in his voice as the metal door slid open gracefully and silently and the young face of the linguist greeted him somewhat sheepishly in the airy hallway just outside.

"Good, you're here."

His inky hand rested on the doorframe and he nodded blankly. "Yeah."

She hesitated, a little taken aback by his coldness and abrupt tone, but she shook it off inside her head and carried on.

"I'm _so_ sorry. I meant to turn up, I did, but I lost track of time. You see I met—"

"You lost track of time? That's it? Not even that there was an emergency, or some family business, just… you 'lost track of time'."

She had no hesitation in frowning sharply in the next moment. "Hey. I'm trying to explain here."

"Is there really much to explain?"

He didn't realise it at first, or she, but something of a pent up storm was beginning to brew in his throat, and he was about to release it, despite Hoshi's protests and urge to explain herself.

"It's only me, Travis. Only Ensign Mayweather. Is he worth a few extra minutes of free time in our day to spend with? Probably not. Would it be worth it to ask him what he thought of the movie, or what movie he'd like to see? I doubt it. Is it worth it to keep your appointment with him? Hell no, not if we lose track of time it's not!"

"Travis—"

"No! I found out a long time ago that I don't raise my hopes with other people. Why I thought you'd be any better I don't know. Malcolm thought he had his problems with society; well at least he had Trip. Me, I should never have bothered, should I?"

The door slid shut again, and Hoshi hadn't even the time to open her mouth.

She had never realised, and she had never felt such a swell of guilt. She had never shattered a young man's utter peak of happiness and joy before though.

. . . . . . .

This was the land of the people who had managed even in such a modern lifetime to keep living a life in a part of the country hardly scratched by technology at all. It was a land where the skies were a blue that had never been poisoned by faux grey clouds, and had never lost their wonderfully serene hue, and a place where the grass was natural, not planted and harvested, and the flowers and weeds were as wild as the shifting winds, and the air was sweet and fresh, tainted only by the natural fragrances of the earth itself.

This land held home to only a scattering of small houses, dotted here and there around the bases of magnificent towering mountains and scrawny stone roads. The numbers that lived here were far outnumbered by widespread herds of sheep and cow, that were hardly seen until it was time to gather a stock of milk and wool, and apart from that lived just as any wildly as any other creatures of the land did.

It was the uncombed and unpolished part of America, home to most of the few remaining Native Americans and humble count of people in this vast country. Jonathan Archer's mother was one of these humble people.

Years ago she had married a man of the modern age. And she had been happy with that man, and so more than willing to sacrifice the clean air and peaceful skies of her home for his habitat of amazing machinery and wondrous scientific advances. She had been willing to raise their son in his father's land too, and was happy to watch him grow up as a man of the era.

But when her husband had died, and her son became a man, she just as willingly and happily retreated back to the one place her heart and soul would always call home before anywhere else.

Grace Leon-Archer was a woman of nature, for no better, purer term. Henry Archer had been a man of the future, and despite how terribly these statuses clashed they had been a far better unity of persons than most tragic couples were these days.

She savoured such simple pleasures as drinking untainted water from the rivers, and breathing the air from the trees every day, and waking up to the song of the nightingale in the morning and falling asleep to the call of the crickets at night.

She shared her life with her sister, Stephanie Leon, a woman who had found giving up such a lifestyle for only a man an utterly unattractive and absurd idea, even if she had adored Henry as a brother-in-law.

The two lived in a cottage with a sandy brown brick shell and a beautifully crafted thatch roof, and anyone would be easily forgiven for thinking they had stumbled into the Highlands of Scotland or the Canadian Rockies a few hundred years ago.

It had taken Jonathan and T'Pol no less than two and a half hours to reach this pocket of nature by land-car. T'Pol had made a point that there were far faster modes of transport, and Jonathan in turn had pointed out that there were quicker ways to eat a Mars Bar than to dissect it layer for layer, but she had not understood the metaphoric point.

"Do you get places like this on Vulcan?"

They were driving into the last fifteen minutes of their journey, arguable the most spectacular fifteen minutes where scenery was concerned. Looking out of the window it was simply a sight of incomprehensible masses of sweet green grass dotted with burst of amazing colour, and unspoiled snow tipped mountains of immense height, all on a backdrop of a cloudless indigo sky.

"Such places are not common, no. The atmosphere is mostly too thin to support such a vast amount of vegetation in one place, although we do have what we call zul-kunel in the North, which translates closest as mountains, I believe, such as these ones."

She briefly waved a finger back and forth across the view from the window.

"They are more red in colouration though, and mostly hold acidic hot springs."

Jonathan nodded with a tight smile. "Maybe we can do a bit of rock climbing while we're on Vulcan then."

She slowly turned her eyes away from the scene, and in a husky voice uttered quietly "Unlikely."

Her voice had also flattened in tone very slightly. Although she often did not understand his fair attempts at humour, she was aware of when he was delivering it, and would often choose simply not to replay to such comments as these. It was clear without saying so that she was not keenly looking forward to facing her family, when they eventually were to make their way to Vulcan in a few days time.

"Do you still want me to come?"

The car drove over a small stony bridge, which carried them over a sparkling river of ice-cold, mountain-fresh water.

"Only if you are still willing to join me."

There was little question about this, even if she did glance at him quickly and unsure.

"Of course. I owe you a lot, this is one of the least few things I can do for you to return the favours."

She hadn't time to query on what he 'owed' her, as the car suddenly left the dwindling road of sand and rock and pulled into the roughly paved driveway of Grace and Stephanie Leon's fantastic little cottage in the middle of nowhere.

"Well, this is it."

Porthos, who had been so dormant and peaceful in the back seat for the duration of the trip, was up at the window before the engine had even been cut. He knew this place and its people well, for the few times he had been here, and hadn't a bad memory of it. To him it was a place of beef jerky and geese a plenty to chase – it was the land his ancestors had worked and lived in before his kind had become heavily domesticated into modern life.

You are sure I am not intruding?"

Jonathan almost wanted to hit her. This was not the first time within the two and a half hours that she had asked him this. He could understand why though, and so he only nodded, uttering a definite 'I'm sure' before he released his seatbelt from across his chest and opened the door to step out into a driveway of yellow grass and unkempt weeds.

"Come on, she'll be waiting for us."

Reluctantly, but without hesitation she followed.

Jonathan had not lied. They trailed off the driveway and into a garden on their left, heading towards a little grey path that led up to a stained oak door. There stood a woman, who had opened the door a few seconds before the two had made it to the front door step, to greet them immediately as they made their way to the entrance.

"Jonathan, my boy, come here."

His grin only just missed spliting his face open as he picked up the speed of his stride and walked into the arms of his mother. She slammed her hand into he back of his head first.

"If you tell your mother you're going to see her the day you come back to Earth, then you go to see her the day you come back to Earth."

Although he winced in pain at the surprising power in her arm, Grace hardly stopped smiling herself as she gathered her only child up in a tight embrace thereafter.

"It's good to see you again, Captain."

She was the only one he would not dare chide for that.

T'Pol came up on Jonathan's heal, quiet and reserved and wary to make eye contact, wary really to be standing there at all. Her face was somewhat stern but her eyes were curious now, as they absorbed her surroundings, and she seemed ready to be spoken to, even if she wouldn't be the one to open her throat first.

It did not take long for Grace to take heed of her son's companion. Her smile never faltered.

"And the Captain's First Officer, Sub Commander T'Pol, if I'm not mistaken."

T'Pol was surprised, even if she did not show it and only nodded, telling Grace with the gesture that she was indeed correct. T'Pol then extended her hand.

"I am… pleased to meet you."

She had picked up on many human traits over the years, including their usual greeting rituals. However, seeing as she had already gotten to know at least the people she worked with on a daily basis well enough so that she no longer had to introduce herself when she saw them, T'Pol had never had the opportunity to execute these moves. So now she did.

It surprised Grace herself, in the most pleasant way. She quickly took up T'Pol's hand in a thorough shake and introduced herself in turn.

Porthos made his own pleasantries by throwing his two front paws up to claw lightly at Grace's filthy and faded jeans, only managing to levitated himself on two legs for a few brief seconds however before he lost his strength on his cast and fell back on all fours again. Nonetheless he repeated this process several times.

"Dog, what happened to you?"

Grace scooped the beagle up in one fluid dip and placed him under her arm before throwing a questioning look of scorning blame on her son.

"It's…" he looked briefly back at T'Pol, "a long story."

Grace felt no need to ask any further questions, and instead led the two inside, bringing them down a matted orange hallway and into her living room.

It was a room that held everything. It was a room where bits and pieces and memorabilia would come in through the chipped wooden door and then never leave again. Although it was small there were cabinets and wardrobes and tables full of ornaments and china and photographs and general precious junk. The wallpaper was an extravagant floral pattern and the carpet a patchwork of different shades of brown. It was a busy room, but seeing beyond that it was a warm room, with a calming fragrance and a truly homely feel.

"You two make yourselves at home, I'm gonna feed this one."

She raised Porthos up under her arm slightly and he strained to lick her nose. It was the same every time he came here, he had utter priority and the son and whoever his companions may be were seen to later.

Jonathan turned to T'Pol. No amount of self-control would keep the continuing smile from his face.

"You like homemade biscuits?"

T'Pol glanced at him almost as if he were as mad as his uncle. She looked around the room next, not with distaste, but almost with confusion, as well as a lingering trace of curiosity. She felt a familiarity with the new company she was in, but could not say why.

"I… do not know."

Jonathan dropped down on a worn leather couch, its rapidly fading brown cover creased and ripped in so many places that it had become a thing of sentiment, and too loved and used to throw out, despite its awful condition.

"You have the exact same look on you as Trip did when I first brought him here."

As he had indented with the comment it gave him her full attention back.

"Sit."

He patted the faded cushion next to him in a friendly gesture. Naturally she hesitated.

"If you don't sit before my mum comes back in you'll be helping her make the next batch of coffee."

T'Pol's brow was quipped. He had been waiting for it to rise ever since he had pulled his car into the rugged drive.

"I do not know how to make coffee."

His smile became a grin again. "Well, you're a quick study, you'll be making it with her before you realised the mistake you made of not sitting down."

It took a few more seconds of a persuasive look from his deep hazel eyes before she obeyed, and sat neatly on the edge of the couch. He noticed that this was the same way she sat whenever she was in his chair on the bridge.

There was a rush of blunt claws against lino and Porthos ran through a door at the back of the room that led into the kitchen, then hobbled up to Jonathan through the living room, and only just managed to jump up between him and the Vulcan so as he could lie securely on the couch. T'Pol shifted away slightly from the beagle, but he took hardly any noticed. He received all the attention he needed from his owner.

"Your dog eats too fast Jon, don't you feed him at home?"

Grace came through the door after the little dog, and in her hands was an elaborate silver tray, with hot biscuits and tea.

"You'll have to forgive me dear, I'm not very good with Vulcan cuisine."

T'Pol looked up from watching Jonathan's fingers dance around the backs of Porthos' ears when she realised the 'dear' was she.

"As long as it hasn't got meat in it she'll eat it."

T'Pol looked long and hard at Jonathan. She had never taken well to having others talk for her when she could fine well do so herself. It was a constant habit of Trip's that often forced her to draw looks of authority on him, pointing out to the Commander with her features alone who was the superior and who should be talking for herself.

If Jonathan knew he had trampled on her pride though, the one she forever claimed she did not have, he took no heed of his actions and quickly grabbed a biscuit for himself. His mother continued her focus on T'Pol as she sat down slowly, settling on a far too cushy armchair.

"Now where have I seen you before?"

T'Pol was taken aback by this. Most of this woman, and the sharp contrast of her nature to Paul and Richard's, surprised the former Sub Commander. However most of this woman reminded her of something from the past, an event from when she was so much very younger.

"It couldn't have been in the conference in Detroit thirty years ago now, could it?"

Something was playing up in Grace's eyes, a spark, a tease. Her questions were rhetoric, asked more for T'Pol's memory's sake than her own. Eventually T'Pol saw why, and remembered, and understood the feeling of familiarity.

"Thirty-one years ago, in Detroit. The High Command were asked to attend a talk hosted by a one Henry Archer on his theories of a Warp Four engine efficient enough to power the Starship that Starfleet had already drawn blueprint for, the NX-01. Yes, I remember."

Jonathan's smile faded. The biscuit never made it to his waiting mouth and as it sat on his lap, still held lightly in his hand Porthos lapped it up. His brow dropped so sharply it looked painful and his eyes could not make up their mind whether to focus on his mother or T'Pol.

"I'll admit I was surprised to see such a young Vulcan there. You couldn't have been any older than forty."

"I was thirty-nine."

Grace nodded. "You must have an impressive academic track to have been allowed to attend such an important event so young."

T'Pol shook her head. Jonathan wasn't sure if he had ever seen her shake her head before, when a simple 'no' would have sufficed.

"My father arranged it that I came down to Earth, to experience humans first hand for myself. I did not ask to go, and theoretically I should not have been allowed to go. But I will admit that I found your husband's talks… interesting."

She was unsure if that was the right word but it seemed to please the widow.

"Henry said you were interesting to talk to. A little quite and stubborn, but… unlike the others."

T'Pol made to reply but it seemed Jonathan would no longer not be a part of this conversation.

"You knew my father?"

She turned to him, as if only now remembering he was beside her.

"I could only talk to him briefly, so I would not say that I knew him. I simply questioned him about the long term durability of the engines."

"Questioned?" Grace could not help but step in again with a whopping laughter and a slap on her knee. "You challenged him is what you did my dear. Most of Starfleet were too excited to look for any difficult questions and the High Command were too bored to bother. He loved it though. You really put him on the spot."

Jonathan leant forward on the couch, looking for eye contact with T'Pol who was busy being curious over the burst of laughter from his mother.

"You never told me you knew my father."

She frowned, almost. "I did not know him, I spoke to him once, a long time ago."

"But still… you knew him."

"I knew him by reputation as well as Soval or my father did, but I can assure you I did not know him on any personal level."

Porthos moved his wet nose onto T'Pol's wrist and she pulled back with lightening grace.

"But why did you never say you'd met him?"

Grace sat back on her plush chair almost timidly as she watched the two move to face each other better. If she knew their relationship better though she would have known this was simply a typical conversation for them. Certainly if Trip was here he would have carried on eating biscuits and rolling his eyes.

"Why would I say I had met him? There was never any time that knowing that I had would have been relevant to help the situation."

Jonathan blinked dumbly in silence for a few seconds. He absolutely despised pure Vulcan logic.

"But, you knew my dad…"

It was a weak argument but anything else he could have said would have sounded pathetic and would have been met with a raised brow. He could only appreciate that from her point of view yes there was never any need for her to mention she had met his father.

What she did not understand was that now she had become a link to the part of his past and his heritage he missed, and it was going to become something very hard for her and her logic to understand.

The front door opened. With it the smell of manure was allowed in. Grace got up.

"That'll be your Aunt Stephie then."

Jonathan got up with her. He looked at T'Pol somewhat warily then with a smile.

"Come meet the rest of the family then why don't you. Just, don't shake her hand. She works with that smell."


	10. Three Small Days

_AN_

Here's a nice long chapter for you all just before I go on holiday again for a week, and then the weekend after that for another week to my dad's…

I'll just answer some questions here, lets see… _dennisud, _always with the questions, always a good thing. I just figured Mum Archer never asked any questions 'cause that's her nature. Don't ask questions if they're not necessary. I know a few people like that, you see.

_Kendra_ – Me, have a book out, I so very much wish. Actually I'm working on some original ideas, which is a main aim of mines, to have a book published. Seems an unlikely thing to happen though, but I'll let you know if it does. Maybe I could even do a book adaptation of _Shadows of P'Jem_ or something, ooh, that be fun… And you don't always need constructive criticism for a review to be appreciated, what you said was lovely, thanks –smile–

And I'll say it again, all of the reviews have been brilliant, and so encouraging, and they're probably what make half the story, you don't know how much I appreciate them.

_RJAG_ - Although I would still claim to say I know more about Enterprise (or at least T'Pol) than you, trust me, I'm always gonna need some help off you, with future projects at least I think. And it gives us something to talk about and drive DC and MW up the wall with, which is always an added bonus.

And now to the chapter.

. . . . . . .

I have been handling guns all my life, weaponry in general really. Ever since it had been decided rather indefinitely by my father that I would in some way be a man of the military it was made certain of by he and various uncles and a grandfather that I knew how to fire as well as I could walk and talk and breathe.

Some would call it a modern day barbarism, taking your six-year-old son out into a remote patch of English forestry to show him for the first time the basics of aiming and wielding a low yield plasma rifle. And by the time that son was eight he was doing it for himself very nearly blindfolded.

As far as I was concerned, I hadn't killed anything, not even laid harm to a lowly specimen of vermin, so we had done no one any harm, and not crossed into the realms of barbarism.

However my concerns in mastering such a practice on a daily basis went far beyond the silly ethics of other peoples that I saw I was not trampling over. Although my father made sure that I fell in love with combat and weapons, which I very much did, he did not control my sense of individuality well enough so that he could nudge me into the Navy as well, not after a second time anyway. He did not crush my own independent will enough so that he could bend me that far. And ever since he had mentioned working back on water for the rest of my hired life, after I eventually decided to quit, I put a solid foot down and refused by all means to go back and make that my life.

It is why I stand here now in Starfleet – instead of on one of Her Majesty's battleships – in one of the targeting rooms, shooting off endless rounds of the newest line of weaponry, and enjoying to the very extreme every last second of it.

Starfleet had become Trip and I's home again. We were back at work almost as soon as they knew we were not interested in taking time off. The thought of taking a month of absence from the job that was my life sat far too uneasy with me for many reasons. I knew for one that if I had a month of my own free time, then a visit to England would have to be in order, and that, I was not prepared for yet.

I was watched by a few as I indulged in the rare opportunity for some 'old-school' target practising. Many observers there saw a man retreated into his own private bliss, a man whose eyes and mind were focused only on the target in front, who cared for nothing else but to watch impact as it happened and who would rather be nowhere else for the next hour or so but where he already was. Some would call him a madman, but most would appreciate that this was only a man living his passion.

On every shot I took a little of the modern world, my personal modern world, temporarily disappeared. The phone call I received from my father that morning was battered to the back of my mind, my mother's pleads for me to return home vaporised in the narrowing of my focused eyes, the obligations that I owed to my life in England becoming nothing but worries of a distant and occupied subconscious.

I began to convince myself again that I was a big boy, a grown up, an individual and a man, with a life of his own, a life I fought every inch of the way for. I was my father's boy only in name and in blood now. I was not the other half of his life, what he leant on when he felt meek and insignificant, what he tried so desperately to live through.

My hair was not my mother's to obsess over and comb every morning anymore, my eating habits were my own, my wardrobe laced with the clothes I wanted to wear, and my nightlife made of the places I wanted to go to.

My bedroom was not my sister's to share, my friends were not for her fancies, or her amusement, and my social life was not hers to pry into. She was not there anymore to poison my goldfish, or to make me the victim of her next tantrum.

I was not there for them to ignore anymore.

My life was my own now, whether that sat in agreement with them or not, and as hard as it was for _me_ to grasp the concept of that sometimes.

The target that sat seventy-five feet away from me exploded with one final contact of my plasma rifle into a tormented rainfall of scorched and scarred paper. The tall rifle-woman to my right who had been practicing with me shifted her slender shoulders somewhat uncomfortably, not daring to throw her quite brown gaze at me, but licking her parched and wary lips with a shaky tongue. I ignored her apprehension and unease though as I set up yet another target.

Growing bored of the bull's-eye targets I punched in to a small control panel on a metallic support beam to my left the code for a moving hologram. I needed a more formidable distraction.

A faded flickering image of a small red ball began to bounce back and forth seventy-five feet away from me. Kept contained in the perimeter of my target box it had little space to manoeuvre in and so was quicker off the mark in pounding from wall to wall. It was hardly the challenge that shooting upset Klingon warriors was, but it was better than destroying stationary pieces of paper with almost insultingly easy target rings penned onto them.

I handled a new weapon now, disowning the basic plasma rifle on the bench before me. This sleek, metallic green surfaced gun rather fascinated me, to the point where it was able to take the scorn away from my eyes.

It was plasma based, as most weapons of the decade seemed to be, but it held to it a dangerous and ingenious edge above anything I had yielded before. Its inventor had boasted to me that it could pass through a contained jolt of electricity with every shot of plasma fired. The voltage was in perfect synch with the plasma, not enough to kill, unless set as so, but enough to critically stun, or ever temporarily paralyse a said target.

It seemed a waste almost that I was firing it at a hologram, and not a live target that could show to me what true potential I was holding here.

I began to forget slightly, as I inspected the grooves and curves of the gun, its weight and balance in my hand and its several settings as well. I found it such a wonderful thing, that I could forget through such simple amusements as this. Of course it was not enough to render me amnesic to the phone call I had had to sit through this morning, but it was enough to numb the hot rage that had been tearing painfully through me.

The nuzzle of the new weapon was raised. The little red ball ahead was still playing its game back and forth and up and down against the walls of the target box. I made waste of time no more and aimed with much anticipation.

"Hey there."

The hand that fell upon my shoulder shot a nerve of shock and surprise through my system and the lethal nose of the gun was raised high to the ceiling before my index finger tensed on the trigger of its own free will and I fired without consent.

It was Trip who stood back meekly, like a little boy scorned, with me as we both watched the angry crimson flare with a lashing of brilliant blue electricity around its circumference quite literally hit the roof in one all mighty smack. The tall rifle-woman too stood back her distance of a few long strides.

The room fell to a shuddering silence as the roof shook and complained in a grinding moan, but did no more than settle again, keeping itself neatly in one piece above our heads.

I turned on Trip with all wholly dumbfounded disbelief.

"And is that the first time you've snuck up on an armed tactical officer whilst he's shooting potentially deadly weapons or is it a hobby of yours?"

Trip's small but widening grin suggested he could only see the more amusing side to this, although I would perhaps be worried if he did not.

"Well, if y' don't count the ten or so times ah've done it to you already on some of our more 'successful' first-contacts, then yes, it's ma first time."

Still being armed I had to confess I was sorely tempted, but I put the weapon down and tried with all failing success to keep the sternness locked in my cold blue eyes as I observed the dancing smile on Trip's face.

"Can I help you?"

Trip was offering the tall rifle-woman a quick glance, who looked upon him with an ever deepening frown, one that said she knew his face just not his name, before I dragged him back to the less fancied reality with my question. He continued to smile in that annoyingly catchy way of his, although his eyes held some saving grace of maturity in them.

"Ah just wondered where y'd gotten to. When the runner came t' tell you y' had a phone call, y' didn't come back, remember?"

He tilted his head in a mock chide and I turned back to my energetic target, which was still alive and well. It had become all the more tempting to shoot.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know I was to check in with you every time I made changes to my day's timetable. Now if you will excuse me."

I would be lying if I said that it didn't sting to see the injury I caused with the insult in the thicket of Trip's frowning features.

"Sorry for treadin' on yer toes there Malcolm."

His tone was divided, half as a genuine apology, and half as a spiteful comeback. He did not move his shadow from my back however.

"Ah take it you don't wanna talk then?"

I picked up the gun, and felt my fingers tense slightly, the action sending an involuntary shiver down the core of my back.

"No I don't actually."

His tall grey shadow moved, but only to my left, where his feet came up to my heals.

"Was it your folks callin'?"

I had never known Trip to pry. I took him as the kind of character who appreciated when it was time to let things lie until the next hour or the next day. I had been betting on all prayers that he would do the same for me, but as I also knew of Trip, he knew when prying was appropriate.

"Well it wasn't the Captain was it?"

Trip's back leant gently up against the metal post to our left, his arms crossing over his chest and his eyes smiling carefully and respectfully with his pale lips. I often resented his ability to bend a stubborn will into talking.

"Yes it was my parents, who else would it be."

Resentfully, but of my own free will I put the prototype gun down with the rifle and pressed my palms down on the bench, using it as support for my weight and stress.

"My father says he's sick. He wants me to come back to England to see him."

Trip's smiling eyes just as quickly turned to an expression of quiet pity.

"Ah'm sorry."

Very barely I managed to place a twist of amusement on my lips.

"I'm not. He's done this before, told me he was sick when he just wanted me home. Last time he very nearly physically pushed me back into joining the Navy again. As funny as it sounds, it wasn't."

Trip nodded. He seemed to understand awfully well for a man who had a good relationship with his own father, from what I have seen.

"You don't know whether he's kiddin' or not this time then?"

Apparently he did.

"No… But he is old, and he's got arthritis and diabetes, and my mum's hardly the champion swimmer she used to be either."

"What about yer sister?"

"What about her?"

Trip eyed me expectantly, obviously wishing for more than that.

"Oh, right, she stayed in Malaysia when my parents moved back to England last year."

The smile returned, only with its more characteristic cheek now back in place.

"She aint any closer to home than you are Malcolm, an' she's gonna be a lot closer when we got back out in ta space."

My fingers traced over the deep green of the gun's polished finish, almost wistful in their trails around and over the bumps and markings of the weapon.

"I can't believe how much I miss being on Enterprise."

Whereas my features had dropped to a sad remembering of the recent past, Trip kept well in shape his bright and wonderful smile.

"Y' know there's a reason why ah'm down here, an' it's not just t' round up your emotions. So feel free t' ask me any time soon."

I looked up at him sceptically, my expression reflecting well my frame of mind. There were many times when Trip did not make an inch of sense. And there was never a time when I cared much for this more cryptic side of his.

"Alright, why are you down here?"

If it kept the peace by humouring him though, I often would.

"Aw, how nice of you to ask Malcolm. Well the Admiral paid me a visit in engineering when ah decided to take a visit up there this morning. He had a proposal. Wants us to be on the first flight of the NX-02 when it finally leaves space dock on Wednesday. Ah said yes, but ah said ah couldn't speak for you."

His words did not quite register at first. They glided from one eardrum to another, swimming through the grey brain matter in between at a rather languid pace, waiting patiently with a yawn for me to catch up as I stood with my eyes slowly widening and my brow rising.

"After all the delays she's finally flying?"

I felt it was too good a proposal, and saw it necessary to be careful and keep my hopes at bay. But this also seemed like the very single answer I had been praying so desperately for.

"Yup. They finally figured out the solutions to the last of problems of why the engines kept bucklin' an' life-support kept collapsin' at Warp 6.5. So they fixed it an' she's finally got the all clear for three days times. Ah take it you might be interested in joinin' me?"

I didn't want to – for fear that this ray of spectacular hope would be massacred if I became excited about it – but I allowed myself to break the tension on my face with a modest smile.

"Of course I'm bloody well interested."

Trip, I feared, only just fell short of rejoicing in dance.

"Well you've got an Admiral to report to then, an' a couple o' parents to wean off yer back then."

In such a crude way he said it so well.

. . . . . . .

Perhaps it was my imagination, or perhaps it was just easiest to blame it on my imagination, to dull the pain of the truth slightly, but the apartment felt heavy, groggy almost. From the physical air that floated in and out of every dusty corner to the atmosphere that was conjured by the imagination it felt as though the rooms were being tugged down with some brute force into the lull of a strange dread.

I had to admit my part in the weights that pinned down my home, as I felt a churning in my stomach that all too well reflected my apprehension, but I was not the bulk of the problem. The Vulcan who shared residency with me was.

It was, however, entirely unfair to blame her for anything today, and when truth be dragged out and told, it pained me somewhat greatly to see her like this.

T'Pol would not want my sympathy. She is a strong character and so in so many ways and rights of logic she does not need it. But I am only human, with human compassion and a human need to hurt when I see those I care for hurting, so I sympathised.

The sympathy became so much worse when I finally saw her ready and composed for the day ahead.

It was eight o'clock in the morning, where outside the air was cold but the rising sun fresh and serene, welcoming even to anyone who was paying attention to its commute across the silky white skies of the early hour. The High Commanded had requested T'Pol's presence for eleven o'clock. Since most transport flew or hovered in some fashion these days, and I had only a standard road-by-wheel vehicle to call my own, I figured traffic on the roads to Sausalito would be minimal at worst. Atop that I figured we would be in the presence of hoards of… a respectful Vulcan elder and other superiors in no less than two hours from departure time, with little stress or strain about it.

The only stress in fact that seemed to come to existence for this entire nonsense set-up came from my stubborn insistence that I physically accompany T'Pol for as far as the way possible through the trial today. Not simply drop her off and then ride down to Starfleet to visit Trip as she had suggested, but actually make foot-on-concrete-floor contact with the Compound and keep it as so until the trial was called to a close.

No, this did not please T'Pol.

"I still fail to see any reason for you joining me in a matter you cannot hope to assist in. It will be a simple waste of your time, when there are far more productive things you could do."

Although the volume in her voice was murdered somewhat by the wall that divided us there was little denying the impatience painted into every well-pronounced syllable from her tongue. I had heard that tone a hundred times before and almost a hundred times now it had made me smile teasingly. I very well knew that it shouldn't have, but it did.

"Any time you're ready T'Pol we'll be leaving."

The apartment's heavy weight fell upon an elegant hush, where the woolly silence was cancelled only by the commotion of material in T'Pol's room and the clatter of Porthose's claws in the kitchen. It was her way of telling me she would only be a minute.

On this day I had the patience of my father's, one of the rather more attractive features of his personality that I had failed to inherited naturally.

The disturbance of material grew louder and then the hush dismissed as the bedroom door in front of my couch opened and there she stood.

Something hit me, something mental that felt as merciless as a physical backhand against my cheekbone. In an instance as I took in the sight in front of me I felt I owed the woman a hundred apologies for being so narrow-minded, so blind – so human.

She stood straight and tall, so well composed and orderly that she could have been royalty. Her chin was tilted so she looked confident, but not ignorant, and her still, tranquil eyes were dark, almost narrow, but not angry. Her mouth was tight and her fingers loose at her side, every muscle aware but not tense.

I had seen this stance before, not often, it was incredibly rarely sported, but enough that this was not what took me aback and made me check myself.

For all the time I had known T'Pol, and known her well for the last several years, I had never seen her look so… Vulcan.

She was clad in traditional Vulcan attire, something I had seen her dressed in once, when I first met her. From shoulder to ankle she donned a spectacular run of rough bronze and silver silks, fashioned elegantly and loosely around her body in roles of robes and sleeves. There were piles of the outfit, hiding her lithe figure well so as her limbs could only be seen when she was moving them and her torso sported only if she were to be sitting down.

Through this costume alone she had become just that little more powerful, bolder, louder, and appeared ever more the Captain she could always have been if not for she was placed on a human Starship and had abandoned her status with her people to stay there.

I dare said if we had had an objective observer standing by he would have said her stance well outstripped mines in authority and supremacy.

Her dark eyes were wisely wary and alert and she was ready for what subtly abuse would be thrown her way. The slight limp she had been trying to hide was now gone and the bruise on her face, although as obvious as it had been, seemed insignificant, almost deliberate in fact, there as a trophy of some sorts.

Yes, this woman was very much Vulcan, and it seemed I had forgotten that…

"Your hair."

It was the first small pathetic sentence I could string together after I realised she had suffered in my silence long enough. She raised a brow.

"It is simply seen as polite to tie back your hair if it is long enough to do so."

Somehow I managed a small smile and that small smile brought me back to a more sensible reality.

"I know woman who would destroy heaven and earth to get their hair tied back that well when it's that short."

The brow remained high and I even received a head tilt this time.

"That seems unlikely."

A Vulcan with a Vulcan need for logic. Why was it that I seemed to have forgotten this?

"Never mind. You look… good, with it back. Shows off more of your face."

It was the God-damn truth as well, but T'Pol only blinked and I believe I blushed around the neck slightly. I eventually put it down to suffering from a little more stress than I had thought. Quite naturally T'Pol seemed fine.

"Shall we then?"

It was quite simply the most sensible thing to be said since she had exited that door. I nodded and smiled again, unsure but composed, for her sake. She did not need someone to fret for as I did right now, but it felt right to be the done thing.

Porthos whimpered at my feet. I no more than jumped when I felt his tender wet nose at my ankle, through my tailored trousers. He had gotten stealthy in his elder years.

"If you are insistent in coming then I will have to accept that, but he," she looked down at my beloved beagle for a brief moment, "must stay."

I looked back up at T'Pol, almost upset, and said in a meek voice, "I know."

She nodded what I could only interpret to be a small and silent 'thank you' before she made her way towards the doorway herself. I followed at heal, after making sure Porthos would not trail behind. He knew he was not to come, but made it no less difficult to leave him by watering his eyes and opening his maw up to a small whimper. On T'Pol it fell on deaf ears.

"Nervous?"

As we began to tread the length of the corridor to the lift I felt a strange stirring in my heart, a quickening of pace in the beats for some reason.

"It is illogical to be 'nervous'. I have prepared myself as best I can and whatever the outcome may be, my being nervous will not change it."

She looked back at me briefly before I came to her side. In her eyes was one of those curious quirks that she would often express to Trip, or Hoshi.

"Are you?"

For being one of a race whose greatest achievement has been drying themselves of any emotion, T'Pol was often almost too keen in picking up on how others around her were feeling. I smiled half-heartedly.

"How about I be nervous for the both of us?"

She said nothing to that but turned her gaze straight.

"Well you didn't have to tell me you could be expelled from living on Earth."

I called the lift.

"Would you rather have found out first if that were to be the verdict of the trial?"

The lift opened and we stepped into its musky insides carefully. I saved a frown from crossing my brow.

"Well, no, but is that likely to happen?"

"Yes."

She said it so frankly that it felt like another of those metaphoric slaps turn punch. She said it so flatly that I was inclined to believe she did not care much for if that were the case. This stung, although again I was not sure why.

"And would you fight it if that's what happened?"

Very carefully she looked at me again, hardly turning her head and more looking from the corner of a steady eye.

"The verdict of the High Command will be final, there is no room for an appeal, unless they grant one."

She fell quite but I felt in her more was to come.

"Besides,"

We had very nearly reached our destination. I knew that what she had to say next I did not want to hear.

"There are far worse verdicts than being sent back home."

. . . . . . .

"Would you just hear me out?"

She trotted behind at his heal, trying desperately to keep up, but it was like chasing a wild storm. He thundered down corridor after corridor, turning bends sharply and barely restraining himself from running away down straights. As the soles of his feet came crashing down to the ground step by vengeful step the echoes of an angry man could clearly be heard, by those in the corridor with them and those locked safely in their dorms, behind solid steel doors.

"Please Travis, you're being unreasonable."

She had caught him in mid-commute between the library at the back of floor six and his own dormitory on floor three. It was the first she had seen of him since he had shut the door on her in the midst of his putrid upset and anger. Little of his mood had changed.

It was merely three days now until he would be reporting back to Admiral Forrest with his resignation and packing his Earthly belongings for space again, back to his real home, the Horizon. So he was now busying himself with tying up loose ends, such as returning disks of star charts and graphs back to the library.

If things had gone right, Hoshi could have been packing with him.

"Travis where are you going?"

And she did not mean his dorm. She had seen the suitcases the other day as well, lad out across the back wall, although they had skipped her full attention until later that day, when she had begun to contemplate Travis and his current status. She did not receive an answer. She would have been more surprised though if she had.

They reached floor three. Travis's dorm was three doors down on the left in a wide arching blue corridor. His pace sharpened up once again as he reached for a silent homerun.

Hoshi very closely beat him to it.

"Travis, stop acting like the ass I know you're not and tell me what the hell is the matter with you."

She stood bravely in front of his doorway, her back over the digital lock and her eyes wrestling to grab contact with his own narrowed pupils. His fists were tight and his muscles on edge. His kindly nature had been pushed into a hostile and tiresome territory and his mood was far from the realms of wishing to talk.

But the little linguist prodigy gave him utterly no choice in the matter, and he had not being pushed to a temper of physical aggression, yet.

"Why didn't you turn up the other day, when I asked to meet you in the gardens?"

Hoshi felt a shot of impatience run up her own spine, but she kept her temper and reason.

"I tried to explain that the other day, but you wouldn't listen."

Travis looked irritably at his watch, for no reason other than to put his eyes somewhere.

"Well I'm listening now."

"Good, 'cause if you'd been listening before then you'd know I was only with Phlox's son who is a very excitable Denobulan who insisted that I help feed his… creatures, because Phlox had told him that I had often been keen to help him out in the past on Enterprise. Unfortunately he failed to mention to his son that I wasn't keen on creatures of the ten-legged variety and I threw up and passed out in the lab when one of his escaped. And by the time that my mess had been cleaned up and his… ten-legged spider creature thing caught and caged again, I realised I was late and so I tried to catch up with you."

Hoshi took a deep resurfacing breath, and Travis blinked quietly, uttering an almost inaudible 'Oh…'

"So where are you going?"

Travis blinked a few more times. He reached for the digital lock, brushing Hoshi to the side gently to open his dorm door.

"Give me a second, I have to flush my head down the toilet…"

He entered into the small and warm quarters, Hoshi trailing in behind hesitantly.

"Why?"

"For being such an ass."

At first her face was blank, as truthfully there were very few comebacks she could conjure for such an idea and statement, and then she pursed and curled her lips inwards, forcing them unsuccessfully not to curl into a greatly amused smile. Then she laughed and Travis blushed, turning back round to face his friend as he stood in position over his bed rather meekly.

"The toilet's down the hall Travis, remember?"

He looked tempted to follow her pointing finger, but he was more tempted to smile with her, which he did shyly after calming the blush across his nose slightly.

Then he said it suddenly, the question he had been burning to ask for days now.

"Will you come back with me to the Horizon?"

The smiled quickly slipped off her face. Her eyes blurred in confusion and she opened her mouth to speak, but nothing save a surprised whimper of air came out.

"Please," he took hold of her hand and gently forced her to sit with him on the bed, just after he shoved his hand sketched star charts from off the mattress and pillows.

"She's coming in three days, to pick me up. I know you want to go back out into space, and this is the perfect opportunity. They need a linguist, for when they do surplus trades. The last time they tried they almost lost half their engines 'cause Paul, well Paul got some words mixed up and he ended up insulting all their sisters, and their dress sense… somehow. And I promised them you would never find a better linguist than Hoshi Sato, and they said they'd give you a trial period of a month, and if you make the grade you get to stay aboard for as long as you can manage."

He forced a calm into his excitement with an encouraging smile. Hoshi's face was still rather blank.

"And I'd really love it if you could join me, because of all the people on Enterprise I never really got to know anyone better than I did you. And I don't want to leave Earth knowing fine well I'll probably never see anyone from Enterprise again, especially you."

He had to stop himself there, because he felt he was giving Hoshi nothing in terms of time and space to answer. She blinked at him quietly.

"It's not too late to make all the arrangements on time either."

She blinked, again, and then finally she spoke with success.

"Really?"

It was neither a yes nor a no, and slanted towards neither answer yet. Travis felt some strange flicker of hope arise in his stomach, but he held it tight at bay.

"Really. It's a great ship. It's where I grew up, my home. Like Enterprise, only you know everyone's name on the Horizon."

He kept the longing from his voice, just.

Hoshi kept herself quiet for a long time. Her gaze eventually left Travis's and she scanned the floors, where his star charts lay askew. She was caught slightly by the beauty of his work, and remembered through them the beauty that she had woken up to every day for the past seven years of her life now. The beauty that she had adapted so well to, and eventually adopted as a second home. The beauty she missed with a passion and a hunger.

"Three days?"

Travis's back straightened and he smiled slightly, nodding eagerly.

"Three days. Wednesday."

"Well… that doesn't leave much time to pack, does it?"

. . . . . . .

It has been estimated that there are now around three million Vulcan inhabitants on Earth, their distribution patterns most commonly spread out over Western North America and Central Africa. Their numbers also continue to grow healthily in Southern Europe.

Jonathan looked around the Compound, and felt himself sinking deep into the epicentre of this ever-expanding and blossoming Vulcan community. He found it nothing short of a harrowing experience.

For a man in proud possession of such a high-ranking position in Starfleet to only have crossed into the borders of the Sausalito Compound once in his entire career and life was a very rare thing, but Captain Archer had rather successfully managed just that, until now. Now he treaded through there wholly voluntarily, with a close Vulcan companion at his side who he considered as much a valuable friend to him as Trip was.

Yes, a lot had managed to change in seven years.

He followed her as they walked down a magnificent entrance hall, hardly decorated or fashioned, but built to an enormous size, with absolute symmetry and perfect right angles in every shaded corner. Although thousands worked and lived here, moving in and out this opening constantly, it was never crowded or busy, as if the flooring had been calculated for such a result.

The place held to it a gentle hush. Footsteps rang clear through the warm air, and rustling robes rose to a volume all of their own, but to hear a voice skip through the hall was rare, as business and work were discussed where business and work were meant to be discussed, in offices and conference rooms. And if a voice were dare to open up, it was at the reception desk, where even there it was quite as most Vulcans had the sense to know where they were going and who they were meeting with before they had even arrived.

Jonathan carried on walking, at the heal of T'Pol, who was as silent and calm as any other soul in the hallway. As they continued to move forward towards a crystal glass elevator, he stemmed the slightest edge of a genuine courage to move his neck to the left and the right. They were being watched.

Whether T'Pol noticed or not was unknown to Jonathan, as he felt himself wade through a thick sea of sharp grey and dull brown eyes, the predominate colour of Vulcan orbs. Breaths were held and second glances commonplace as those around confirmed the sights of the rogue in their midst.

Former Sub Commander T'Pol, once promised future Captain of the Starship Silvan, daughter of none other than Ambassador Taron and a prodigy Ambassador Soval had once highly regarded, had finally returned back into the presence of her brethren, in no less than disgrace.

She was aware of this.

Jonathan was no more looked upon than the specks of dirt he brought in on the soles of his polished black shoes. Any prolonged stares went straight to T'Pol. And the stares were everywhere.

The glass elevator cut through the middle of twenty-two rows of stone balconies, which behind them were the twenty-one corridors that led to four hundred and thirty rooms of residency in the North wing of the Compound, and the one top corridor that led to the Ranking Conference room.

It was here in a room that so resembled a more serene and sky blue coloured version of a human courtroom that T'Pol's trial would be held and dealt with. It was here that Ambassador Soval watched the two banes of his life enter into the lift in the same ruled silence that swept the gist of the Compound.

He tucked his arms into the opposing sleeves and stood more stiffly at the glass door to the room behind him. He did not speak at first to the grey shadow on his immediate left, but he was spoken to.

"She is to return back to Vulcan, there is no leeway about that. Here she is a menace, she is in the company of those she is begin to become too much like, there is too much influence, and if she is to run amok anymore than she is sure to have others following her example in time. The last thing we want is another V'Lar staining the race."

For a moment there was a hush between the two, and Soval contemplated. Then he nodded.

"It will be done Ambassador, I can assure you."

Scepticism hung in the air, lingering on the ashen lips of the shadow, although no words were ever spoken. Soval opened for him the door and a weak trail of sickly blue light tumbled out, eliminating a brilliant pair of crystal grey eyes.

"She will be here any second, I suggest you take your seat."

The suggestion was taken with a curt nod and the shadow became a clear-cut figure before he took his place with the common audience in the auditorium.

Soval shivered with distaste as he remained waiting at the doorway, standing in a far less comfortable silence with his robes brushing the lino floor in gentle strokes as he continued to cross his arms anew every few moments in unrest.

He did not have to wait long as his own words had been correct and the elevator opened at its peak stop for the Captain and the Vulcan to set foot outside the conference room.

Although Soval had spotted Jonathan in the entrance, he acted no less surprised to see him, of which he was when he watched the audacious man stride down the corridor.

"Captain Archer, I do not remember stating that your presence was required at this hearing."

It was beyond the elder Vulcan, but Jonathan smiled, tightly.

"He has a right to serve with the witnessing audience."

T'Pol's eyes flirted with the ground for a brief moment before she raised them behind her and caught hold of Jonathan's own silent hazel gaze.

"Thank you, for coming."

Neither offered up any further words before they strode past Soval and into the Ranking Conference room.

Amidst the circumstances Jonathan found it a fantastic sight, the room he then walked in to. As with the entrance hall it was no small feat of architecture. The room, which was stained in this serene blue hue, expanded over an entire floor with high roofs and no decor or detail as before, but perfect symmetry and right angles.

On the centre of the East wall was a podium and to its right a smaller platform, and so in this respect it was given the appearance of a courtroom. The tens of rows of white seats before it, arranged in a wide arch no less depicted this image, and the stand off bench on the North wall holding a number of no less than ten high-ranking High Command Respectfuls could only forgive you for tricking you into think that a human courtroom was where you were.

Although the room had been cast in silence before T'Pol had entered, some whisper of a numbing hush seemed to sweep the attended fifty or so that took up the first few rows of seats. She ignored them though, as she had ignored the stares below.

An escort came and ushered T'Pol to the smaller platform, leaving Jonathan to fend for himself. He took hold of his initiative and sat awkwardly on a chair to the end of a half filled row. No one stared, but he felt a burning attention focused on him.

The silence continued to blare, and was interrupted only by an automatic standing of the audience, of which Jonathan looked around hastily before he too stood with them.

Then a voice uttered itself from the South wall and Jonathan could not help but start, as he had not seen the Vulcan with his PADD standing near the entrance door before.

"This Assembly has been gathered to witness the judgment of a one T'Pol, former Sub Commander for the High Command, later self-relieved of her position on the twenty-fourth of April, 2153. She stands accused of third degree mutiny and disregard of her superiors. This session will be carried out in English, for the sake of our Starfleet counterparts."

Jonathan's neck jerked on that closing sentence, and as his eyes searched in a confused scan through the small crowd he caught sight of Admiral Forrest to his far left, with two other Starfleet officers. If the Admiral knew he was there though, he made no signs to acknowledge it.

A door opened to the left of the main podium and yet another Vulcan made an appearance. He was an elder. His face was mapped by fine wrinkles and his hair was a distinct silvery grey. He walked with grace and an alien youth and his eyes were as alive and dark as T'Pol's. So although he was an elder, it seemed it was only by name and by a date that he was burdened with this title.

He offered her a look and almost instantly T'Pol's hand rose up in the distinct Vulcan greeting that Jonathan had only ever seen her execute a rare few times now.

His eyes only skimmed over her though, before he addressed the audience too with a look. They sat, and in haste again Jonathan followed.

"I have spent a week reviewing your case T'Pol." He kept his eyes front, and his eyes down at a PADD. "A record was started by Ambassador Soval to trace your movements and status with the Starship Enterprise NX-01. It appears that in the last five years you have made no attempt to entwine yourself back into the High Command and your former position there, but instead have stayed willingly with your post as First Officer and Science Officer to a one Captain Jonathan Archer on the said ship Enterprise, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"And do you wish to return with your former ranking position as Sub Commander in the High Command?"

And here was where T'Pol fell on a prolonged wind of silence. She neither moved nor attempted to speak. Her eyes were sat front but they were not focused on what was there to focus on.

Jonathan found himself slipping forward on his chair, his muscles tensing and his fists clenching.

"T'Pol, the session needs an answer."

Her eyes snapped into focus on Jonathan suddenly, and he jerked upright again, taken aback.

"No."

The audience could no longer keep on their hands. A small murmur rolled over their heads, hustling through the fifty so on a small breeze of apprehension.

It was insane for a Vulcan to be giving up her position in the High Command, insane to throw a lifetime's work away for a career with humans that was only to last her those seven years. It was unheard of, and utterly unreasonable. Not a trace of logic sat over this.

"Then I understand you will hand in an official resignation to me?"

T'Pol moved one sweeping robe sleeve with her arm under it, and from amongst the folds of material across her chest she took out a PADD and handed it over to the elder.

"Then let it be known T'Pol that you no longer belong in rank to the High Command and that you have permanently been banished from taking up a position there again for the duration of your lifetime."

There was a small pause, in which the elder tucked away the PADD in his own folds before he turned to the audience.

"And has anything to be added to this session by the witnessing audience?"

For a few seconds there was a familiar silence. Nothing was said and nothing was attempted to be said. The audience simply wanted this act of barbarism to be over with, and for the rogue to be gone from their sights.

A glance and a nod passed between Soval and the elder. T'Pol caught it, but made no fuss of it. She knew well what it meant, and understood already what the elder's next words would be.

Jonathan was back leaning forward on his seat again.

"Then your sentence is thus: you will return to Vulcan,"

The blood of Jonathan's veins froze,

"and under order of the Ranking Circle of Ambassadors you will not be allocated Visa for Earth again, lest you serve time in prison. Session dismissed."

And that was all there was to be of it. So that was why he spoke up as so.

"What? No! You can't do that, that's bull!"

The elder's muscles sharpened and his eyes flashed. T'Pol's eyes in turn widened, and she poured her sights onto Jonathan, almost begging him to silence himself. She had at least justification now though for not forewarning Jonathan about how inevitable this outcome actually was two hours ago.

He was on his feet though, aware that he had become a magnet for all eyes and attention, including Admiral Forrest's, and caring little for this fact anyway.

"An escort will be here in three days to assure your safe return to Vulcan T'Pol. If you wish to argue your case then you will do so on Vulcan. Session," his grey eyes glanced over Jonathan, "dismissed."

"No!"

The audience began to grow restless and curious. They positioned their angels so that they sat to view Jonathan's sceptical, and he growled with his eyes and all the scorn a human could possibly possess as he faced the elder.

"T'Pol hasn't done anything wrong. If anyone should be punished it should be me. I was her acting captain, I was the one who encouraged her to believe in time travel and go into the Expanse, and do what she felt was right, even if it meant turning on her own kind. You can't banish her from Earth if that's where she wants to live."

The elder gave Jonathan a long-suffering stare, to which after a harsh sixteen seconds he drew breath to speak again and said in a stronger tone, "Session dismissed."

T'Pol left the podium. She walked with graceful speed and did well to ignore the continuing stares around her. She made a far better job of gripping onto Jonathan's upper right arm though, with a hand that went white across the knuckles as she did. If he insisted on an argument, then it would be outside, with her.

No one else was given the pleasure of her attention as she made her exit, except one.

He stared with hard grey eyes, the colour of weather-beaten rock, but brilliantly bright, and tight pale lips that seemed almost sewn together in some strange hidden smile. And he was an entirely satisfied looking Vulcan, who T'Pol knew she would see again soon.

"Can I ask what you were doing in there, or were your actions too irrational to have a justification?"

They stood just outside the Ranking Conference room's solid oak door, where there was a different silence in the corridor now, a bitter, electric silence between two commanding officers, who right now both saw they had the highest authority to be angry in their own ways and rights with.

"What, you're just going to accept what was said in there?"

His eyes were burning, there was a hatred and a scorn in them that seemed capable of torching through anything he laid his hot sights on. But there was also a horrible sadness behind this raw emotion, and he looked upon T'Pol with it.

"I have already told you, the elder's decision is final. If I am to debate my case further it will have to be on Vulcan. Vulcan law is far more concrete than human. There will be no leeway."

On any other occasion he might have felt patronised and insulted, but the anger and the sadness overwhelmed him enough that he was numb to any other sentiment for the time.

"And are you going to fight it?"

T'Pol did something very rare and rather unsettling then. She broke away from the tight eye contact they shared and spoke with her gaze to the floor.

"I do not know yet."

Jonathan let the silence evoke. She had just told him no.


	11. Goodnight and Goodbye

_A.N_

_-collapses and faints- _Okay… -_breath_- okay.

So I thought I would have the clever idea of writing down this chapter whilst I was on holiday, to keep the ball rolling if you will. No one told me it was going to end up 13,000 words long. I had to cut a third of it off, meaning I can't treat you all to the lovely cliff-hanger ending I had planned for chapter eleven. No, that has now become the beginning of chapter thirteen. –_pants_–

That aside, I wont say much, just that this is one for the T/T'P'ers and the hankies.

I think I may also take a vacation from this story for a few weeks, work on some other long since abandoned stuff.

(I don't know why but in uploading this chapter has missed out all my indents. I'm not happy. Hopefully it wont effect the impact or drama of this chapter... for their sakes.)

. . . . . . .

There was a commotion outside the bedroom, not a racket but a slow movement of body loud enough to stir Jonathan awake. He sat up with a jerk and a snort, and blinked rapidly in slight fright.

The room was cast in a silky black pool of darkness and he could barely sight the hands atop his lap. As he sat perfectly stationary he wondered if the disturbance enough to wake him wasn't just his own dream, or Porthos who was… somewhere on the floor below him, sitting just out of sight in the shadows, probably wanting out for food.

Utterly blind he searched for the switch to the lamp on his bedside table to the right, eventually finding it after successfully spilling an entire glass of lukewarm water and the lamp itself.

Porthos yelped, then growled quietly as water trickled slowly down his crown. At least he had found his dog, and could score him out as the source of the disturbance. The room became aglow with a gentle transparent yellow light as he pulled the lamp back up by the cord.

And then the commotion began again. He froze on the sticky warmth of his room and caught his breath tight in his throat, lapsing into complete silence.

It was a gentle shuffling of feet along the living room floor, creeping soles brushing into the rough woven carpet as they went.

There was silence in the bedroom next to him and so he could only assume T'Pol was still asleep. He checked the clock in at four-fifteen, and so he could only believe she was still asleep.

Then he heard the patio door open. He sat up sharper, almost leaping from his bed in one ungraceful bound. He did eventually get up a few seconds later in a scramble of sheets and boxers and charged fearlessly into the living room. He cast the lights on by clapping briskly but soon regretted the action as he shied away from the far more intense white glare that shrunk his flashing pupils and painfully blinded him.

"Jonathan?"

A chilly breeze danced through the apartment, evidence before he saw it that the tiny patio built out from the back of the living room was indeed opened. And it was T'Pol's voice that rode the breeze, quiet and gentle and tired. Jonathan forcefully peeled opened his lids and laid sight on her from across the room as his vision gradually adjusted.

The moonlight of a clear night flooded in through the open drapes, drowning her lithe outline in an eerie and beautiful enigmatic glow of a ghostly silver. Her hair shone a strange white-grey and her eyes reflected a cold nickel-brown. She was a living ghost, a physical figment of a wondering spirit who had come to find peace under the stars of another's galaxy. And she craved familiar company to join her.

"I apologise if I woke you."

Porthos hadn't dared to waste this rare opportunity of midnight freedom and his keen nose followed the trickle of a clean cold breeze, which led him to the balcony where he brushed passed T'Pol's feet and sat outside contently. She did her best to politely ignore him.

Where he lay out was no more the length of three of four metres, and a couple deep, but it was enough for them to share the night on, the Captain, the Vulcan and the dog.

"No, it's okay, I wasn't sleeping well anyway."

"Oh?"

"Nightmare. How I envy your dreamless sleeps."

He smiled and she quipped a brow, both remembering when she had declared a long time ago now her envy for the human ability to dream peacefully on occasions.

Slowly he approached her at the entrance to the balcony and the two cast their wistful eyes skyward, up into the infinity of space, their second home.

"What keeps you up on this fine night then?"

He smiled again, although it was a weak gesture, and sprung an expression of pain into his eyes, which she saw.

"I was finding it difficult to mediate."

He nodded and understood without prying further.

He had spent a couple of nights with her before in the mess hall because neither could sleep, he suffering from worries that brought on insomnia, and she suffering from a lack of concentration to be able to meditate in peace. Those had been nice nights, peaceful ones where they had learnt surprising much about each other in only the space of a few short hours at a time.

Finally Jonathan set foot out onto the small sandstone jut that oversaw a grey alleyway and the next row of shimmering blue apartments, remembering as he went those few nights.

"I've never been out here before. That's why I never mentioned it, forgot about it behind the drapes."

T'Pol continued to stand on the brass railings at the entrance where the tinted glass slid effortlessly back and forth on. She looked at him curiously and lingered with hesitation.

"I almost fell off a balcony once, when I was ten. I was on holiday with my parents in Spain because my dad loved Europe and insisted we went to a different European country every year. So that year we chose Spain. Anyway, my mum was down at the poolside and I was leaning over our apartment balcony, which was about four or five stories up, asking her if she wanted a towel I think, when suddenly I lost my balance, tipped over too far when I was trying to get her to hear me. My dad caught me, just, but I don't think I've ever been on a balcony since. Well, except for the one on Risa, but that balcony was a room in itself."

He dropped his head and laughed quietly into the night, as if realising only now the absurdity of this anecdote and fear. T'Pol's response, however, utterly surprised him.

"When I was eleven my father took me hiking up one of Vulcan's more notorious set of hills, the Toch'mirs. He had done this before with my two elder brothers, when they were also eleven. It is a… tradition, I suppose you would say, a common practice between fathers and their sons on Vulcan. However he insisted he carried out this practice with his daughter also, something out with the tradition.

We had been hiking for three days when he eventually realised that I, as a female and at my age, did not have the same strength and endurance as my brothers had had when they had hiked together, and this… annoyed him. So when I slipped and lost my footing on a rock face he would not aid me back up, telling me that I was to pull myself up if I were ever to learn how to achieve something difficult on my own. But I fell again and dropped onto a ledge where I broke my ankle.

For a week after he would not speak to me, and only eventually did because my mother ordered him to apologise. I have never trusted him since."

As the moonlight sung a sweet low song into the winds T'Pol stepped slowly onto the balcony with Jonathan and latched her eyes once again out into space, longingly.

"He was at the session yesterday, sitting in the same row as you. He will have been the one who ordered my transfer back to Vulcan, and he is important enough in the High Command that they will have abided by his request with little protest or question over it. Specifically since Soval was too on his side."

Jonathan's stomach churned, but he kept the angering sickness from his expression. Instead he leant across the white painted cement edge of the balcony tentatively and placed his forearms down as support. Porthos sat peacefully at his feet, the underbelly of his tail catching up a fine collection of red dust as he dragged it back and forth across the sandstone at a feverish speed. His leg no longer bothered him.

"Is that why you wont fight this transfer? Because your father ordered it this time?"

T'Pol continued to stand straight, but she crossed her arms over for comfort and warmth.

"He will fight notoriously to keep me on Vulcan, to assure I do not become any more human than he believes I have already. He will have been watching me, with Soval, scrutinising and dismaying at my every move. And now that he has his chance, he will punish me."

Again the moon sang mournfully and Jonathan looked down sadly at the alleyway's ashen ground. Specks of silvery white dust danced around widely with yet another billowing breeze that flew into the empty streets of the nighttime.

"And when you go back to Vulcan, will I be coming with you, like you asked before?"

He knew the situation had changed, drastically, but he held some stubborn hope that this muse was still with her.

She could feel the pain pushed into every word, as he also considered that perhaps she had diminished the idea by now. As she faced up to him slowly, his heart sank.

"On Vulcan I have nothing. The High Command gave me my home and my standard living requirements, so these things I will have to set up for myself now. Bringing you along would be… awkward."

She could think of no easier way to say it.

At that moment suddenly, as he felt his emotions bomb, he wanted to take her hand in his, reach out and wrap his arms around her… kiss her even. But he feared she would not understand and so he hung his head again instead.

"There are other factors I had not considered before either. The climate for one most humans find is far too hot to be able to adjust to, I think you would also. I could not let you go through that. And I asked you before because I had to see my father, but now he has taken things far further than I first thought he would. The matter has become very… personal."

He looked upon her with despair, and for the briefest second a hot anger even, but only because he knew she was perfectly right in what she tentatively argued.

"Then before you go," he looked back out into the street to their right and watched a man, restless and unable to sleep with the weight of worries he had on his shoulders right now, take his docile golden retriever out for a walk, "let me take you out this evening."

She might have showed scepticism, but this morning she was being particularly wily about showing expression. He raced to think of something to do, save walk down empty, volatile streets together and argue with the High Command.

"Let me… take you to the Club 602. I promised Malcolm and Trip we'd meet up with them at some point there."

Her head fell in a tilt and her brow elevated itself for a brief moment. "And this Club 602… is?"

He hesitated, then smiled meekly, then scratched the back of his cold neck as he thought of how best to decipher what a 'bar' specifically was.

"Eh… it's a bar, near the grounds of Starfleet in a place called Mill Valley, where Trip and I used to go almost every Friday night together after theory classes. You go there to drink and play pool and… fraternise, basically."

For a brief moment his sadness was gone and he smiled again, pleased with the definitive describing word and the idea, and waiting with anticipation for a positive response, the one he wanted to hear.

She brought her eyes up to the black skies once more and gazed to the North East, sighting only just the weak light of Vulcan's powerful sun. For a long while she did not answer, only thought.

In just fifty-three hours she would be boarding the condemning Starship that would take her back to her mother planet. Seven years ago she would have welcomed this flight with open arms after serving and living on Earth's San Francisco for two years previously.

But then she went away seven years ago and did a very un-Vulcan like thing – she made friends, moreover human friends. And although they did not understand her at first, or she them, within time they shared conversations and cultures and understandings, and soon they were no longer afraid or critical of each other.

And on the Starship that she went away on she shared a new kind of bond for a Vulcan with a young and gifted linguist who respected her well after a while, and who in time sought her guidance and maturity, and who she in turn got answers from when she did not understand certain human behaviour. And she had given this young linguist prodigy some of her books explaining the older Vulcan languages, and the young Ensign had been so grateful that she returned the gesture as best she could and gave her a book on her own people's native language. And she had studied the complex new alphabet with as much fascination as the linguist did the dead Vulcan languages.

And she befriended a doctor whose amazement with the culture and race they were both new to was unbelievable, at least to her it was, and who taught her in time to appreciate them and their ways as he did. And when the Pa'nar syndrome brought her dangerously close to an untimely diminish just over a year ago now, he had refused to call it an end on her life when others already had and fought with insistence against her people until they agreed to help treat her and resurrected her from her illnesses' terrifying grip.

And she had met a Helmsman who showed her something else of humanities to boast about, humanity's youth. And his amazing undying smile and alert auburn eyes showed her an enthusiasm that made her hinder a new angle of respect for her colleagues, of their curiosity and faith also that rarely died in a spirited person such as he. And she had shared a dinner with him once, and to break the silence he had told her a joke about 'A Scotsman, an Englishman and an Irishman'. And despite its slight crudeness it was the first ever joke she had appreciated and so she had smiled, which in turn made the Helmsman choke on his steak. And so she had had to perform the Heimlich, and no one believed him later when he told them that was why he had chocked.

And she fought at the side of a Lieutenant who blushed whenever she locked her gaze onto his and who showed her what a true gentleman of the human race could be like. Who showed her a man's utter best manners and respect and who never let his personal standards slip around her. And when they had been cornered by a new enemy a couple of years ago and one took a shot at her that could very nearly have killed her he took the damage for her instead and very nearly died himself. And he never regretted that action. And then a few months later he did it again. And in time she had her turn to pay back her debt to him, and did the very same for him. And it became a 'running joke' on board that whenever they would go down to a planet together the crew would place bets on who would take the next shot.

And she had met a Commander who showed her the full flourish of human emotions. He showed her examples of frustration and anger, hared and lust. And he had also showed her joy and sadness, tenderness, fear and simple bliss. And then eventually one day, love. And when they had rescued the crew of V'tosh ka'tur Vulcans five years after they had last encountered them because their ship had been found crippled, and Tolaris had gotten aboard, the Commander stepped in front of her as he approached and they had fought in the corridor. And when Andorians put forward their cursed words to her he would curse back, and he would do this with any race who turned their nose up at her. And he had stayed at her bedside with heavy remorse for a week as she recovered from the Salan attack, and he had not once got up and left her bedside until she had opened her eyes again to him. And then, when he realised she could not love him as he did her he gave her one last kiss, a smile, and then cried, and showed her the human emotion of loss.

And then she had met a Captain. And his name was Jonathan Archer. And when first they had met he had threatened to 'knock her on her ass' simply for stating a valid point. And then a respect began to seed, and events happened that funded that respect and with it harvested a friendship. He celebrated her first whole year with the Enterprise crew, ordered a special meal to be made by Chef and then insisting that the Commander take a photograph of he and her together after she had told them a part of her family history that she told few about. And when he found out she had Pa'nar he had been deeply worried for her, and when he eventually discovered she was addicted to Trillium he became a metaphoric rock for her to lean on so she could handle herself again. And when he found out the Commander had slept with her he and the Commander had fought in the mess hall and she had had to break it up and explain herself, which made her stomach ache with a form of emotion she would never fully understand the qualities of – guilt. And he had been emotionally sick when the doctor was unsure of whether she would survive through the Salan attack or not. And they had shared countless meals together, three of which were to celebrate his birthday, one to celebrate her own. And he had kissed her on the forehead, and hugged her, laughed for her and cried and fretted and felt angry and frustrate and confused for her and because of her. And she had cried once in the privacy of her quarters when he had gone missing on a planet for a week and she felt as through she had failed him as his acting Captain.

So finally she turned her gaze back from the skies and placed it into Jonathan's starlit hazel orbs and nodded.

"I would be glad to join yourself, Malcolm and Trip this evening."

Jonathan nodded in turn and smiled gently, making no comment on her chosen language of 'glad' and 'Trip'.

Eventually he turned back into the greater warmth of the apartment, resting his feet on the carpet again, and also realising as he did so that he was no longer ashamed that he donned only boxers and socks in front of her.

"Thanks." He paused then added, "No one will stare at you there, I promise."

Porthos' blunt claws clattered against the sandstone as he followed his alpha in, and they left T'Pol standing on the balcony alone. Of tonight nothing more could be said or done.

"Goodnight," he called over his shoulder just before disappeared back into his palely lit bedroom. She nodded again, and then allowed the tips of her lips to flicker up almost unnoticed. She smiled, just.

"Goodnight."

Neither saw till the later morning the two phone messages that were waiting for them.

. . . . . . .

A pack of cards and two tall glasses of rum and coke were all that sat on the small metal table in the middle of the floor of Travis's quarters, and were all that they needed for a night-in of mild celebrations, although night had now become four o'clock in the morning.

Hoshi had been accepted by the Horizon, and Starfleet, although rather heat-broken at losing the best linguist they had ever seen cross through their doors, were willing to let her go still with her old position wide open if ever she chose to come back. (With such gifted employees contracts would often become stretched and lenient).

So poker was played and through the hours the glasses of rum and coke were betted away until both began to hiccup and jump with laughter, and they realise for all the giddiness they felt now, the hangover would loom down far worse in only a few hours.

"You know who I'm gonna miss the most?"

Hoshi sat back on the carpet with her palms pressed down as shaky support behind her. Travis simply listened to her with a constant agreeing bob of his head.

"The dog. Yeah, him. What was his name, what was it now…?"

She raised her right hand to click her fingers as she thought long and hard and almost instantly in a flash lost her balance.

For all his sweet nature and good intent Travis could not straighten himself for laughing to help her and so she was left to sprawl ungainly on her side, scowling a dark shadow across her silky brown eyes before she too caved into the temptation of laughter.

"Porthos Hoshi, his name's Porthos."

It took a great deal of effort and loss of calories for Hoshi to end up on her bum again, but she managed it and then stared distastefully at the forgotten card game in front of them on the table. They had given up on poker a while back now.

"Why don't you phone him then, if you love him that much?"

A snort of laughter shot from Hoshi's nose and she rolled her eyes in exaggeration.

"Why don't _you_ phone him if you love him so much?"

There was silence. From across the table they blinked hazily at each other, and then after holding their breaths for a few seconds they doubled over with fresh dices of laughter.

"You got any pets on the Horizon?"

For a moment Travis had to sit and think about this query, a warm fuzz coming over his mind and numbing his memory slightly. Finally he recalled.

"Eh, yeah actually. Well we used to anyway. Paul – that's my brother – he used to be allowed to breed rats on the ship, and he gave me one once, a little white one with brown splodges. I called her Sunny. But they all died when a trader came abroad and brought in a virus in his cargo that killed them off. So no, we don't have pets on the Horizon."

She looked almost upset by this, and so he sat back and mused over something more for a brief moment before he finally brightened to the idea rolling around back and forth in his thoughts. It was a simple idea, but in his fuzzy state of mind to him it was ingenious, and there was little doubt she would feel the same.

"You want a pet?"

She raised her gaze from her empty glass – looking almost upset at that too – and offered to Travis her undivided and hazy attention.

"Can't, mum has allergies."

Travis blinked silently at her for a few moments. "Hoshi, your mum's not here…"

Suddenly her lips smiled and she sat perkier. "Oh yeah. Cool. Yeah I'd _love_ a pet."

He nodded decisively. "Then why don't I ask my mum if we can bring a dog on board with us?"

Hoshi frowned, unaware that she had actually heard Travis right, but as he nodded eagerly, waiting for an answer, it dawned on her that she had and she began to trust her senses more.

"Really, seriously?"

He laughed in good nature and nodded once again. "Yes!"

Then she frowned deeply again. "Where would we get it?"

And Travis laughed again. "Don't tell me you've never been to the Sunshine Pound down here before, you of all people? It's only half an hour West of here. They have _tonnes_ of dogs and cats, mostly strays and unwanted gifts."

Meekly she had to answer a quiet and confused 'no'. So Travis laughed through habit now and got up, or at least spent the next five minutes trying to whilst he was watched with fascination by a perplexed Hoshi.

"Okay," he finally balanced upright on shaky knees and panting lungs, "phone mum."

He stumbled over to the basic voice-only phone on the wall above the bed's solid oak headboard, but Hoshi made a great leap of faith across the carpet and grabbed his ankle before he could stumble forward any further.

"Wait, Travis, it's only," she squinted with great effort to read the green digit numbers on the alarm clock on the bedside table, "four-fourteen. She's not gonna be awake now is she?"

Travis had to pause and think about this one, Hoshi still clinging clumsily to his ankle as he stood and did so. Then he jutted out his bottom lip and shrugged.

"No, I guess not."

Suddenly his ankle was gone from her grasp as he let gravity seize him and throw him onto the bed. Thereafter there was a calm silence.

After a few minutes Hoshi sat up tentatively. "Travis?"

For a moment there was nothing, so she began to claw her way over to the bed where Travis's legs still hung over the edge.

"Travis?" She touched on his knee carefully and then finally got an answer, a grunted and sleepy, "Wha'?"

"Travis, are you going to bed now?"

He lay quietly, peering up at the peacefully still shadows on his ceiling, and Hoshi's restless one beside his. "Yes."

She fell back against the bed and stared at the shadows on the carpet. "Oh."

Then suddenly, just as the disappointment had begun to creep in, his gentle hands came sweeping under her arms and he lifted her onto the bed with him in one surprisingly strong sweep, her legs still crossed and his grin still in place, only more sentimentally.

He lay down on the bed sheets, still fully clothed but barely caring. Hoshi twisted her neck to peer down at him curiously. He patted the free space in front of him.

"Care to come to bed with me?"

She shook her head as if he were crazy, but still smiled as he continued to softy pat the generous amount of space left atop the mattress in front of him. Seeing he was serious, but only with innocent intent she then tentatively placed herself down beside him so they both faced outward to the door. In barely a moment she felt a great swell of warmth and comfort overcome her and she smiled contently.

"Goodnight Travis."

He was quiet for a minute, his eyes not gazing at the door but at the thicket of her glossy black hair which was extremely silky for someone of Asian origin, rather than coarse. Each shimmering strand smelt faintly of pineapple and he savoured the subtle flavour in his nostrils before smiling and closing over his deep auburn eyes to the thoughts of the events that were to perceive in only a couple of days time.

He was happy now, so with a content sigh he said "'Night Hoshi," and quickly fell to sleep with her wrapped loosely in his arms.

. . . . . . .

_- 17 Hours Later - _

Although the smell that drifted casually out from the two large swing doors was a musky one, it felt warm and homely as it seeped through into your nostrils, designed as such to bring you into an atmosphere that provoked nothing but a feeling of belonging and welcoming.

There were accents of pine and sweet cold beer, and fresh meat and salted chips and crisps. There were the flickering odours of one hundred different bodily scents, of one hundred pairs of feet that had treaded through one hundred other different smells, and a hundred different droplets of sweat and sprays of perfume and splashes of aftershave that all became a hybrid of this homely air. It was a busy smell for a busy place.

T'Pol blinked rapidly for a moment, her sensitive eyes slowly adjusting to the stinging smoky air and her ears almost caving to the sea of sounds that accompanied the sights and smells.

Jonathan looked at her quickly as she brought her gaze up and around the modern silvery blue complex. He could not tell what her first impression of it was but he smiled and waved her forward with him.

"Come on, I told Trip and Malcolm we'd meet them at the bar."

She turned to him slowly, finding it hard to tear her darting gaze away from a collection of holographic images on the walls of the entrance hall that were composed of abstract shape and clashing colours. She found them confusing and senseless though, so eventually moved on quickly to save herself from an early headache.

They rounded the corner on the right at the end of the azure soaked hallway and as they turned into the bar and the sounds of brawling and bantering and old country music, and drunken slurry words and snooker cues and dancing fell upon their ears, T'Pol drew back suddenly and Jonathan went a couple of steps forward without realising he had lost the following of his companion at the corner.

Her eyes narrowed in the thickening smoke and stung feverishly. Her throat tingled angrily at the back and the noise began to confuse her again. Although she would not admit it or dare show it, she fell back in fright.

Jonathan spotted Malcolm and Trip who appeared to be in the climax of an argument, and he made to approach them with a wide smile when he realised he was standing alone.

"T'Pol?"

He turned right then left then twisted his gaze over his left shoulder and saw her standing with dismay. Her slim fingertips moved fast as she brought her hands up to her temples and assured that the lengthening bowl cut of hair was still covering fully her torn and ragged ear tips.

However, nothing could be done about her distinctive olive complexion, her dull brown eyes and her sombre expression, and she appeared as Vulcan a she would with her hair cut and her ears ablaze in sight.

"T'Pol, are you alright?"

She blinked and in an instant her sharp and trained attention was back on Jonathan who stood just in front of her, and away from the couple in an ebony corner who were publicly and shamelessly courting, and who her darting eyes had been unwillingly drawn to.

"Yes."

It was not the first time she had ever lied to her Captain about her state of mind. She was not a selfish character, not liking to concern others with her own unease or ill well-being if there were other matters of theirs at hand to deal with. Not selfish she was a good liar though, much in thanks to her Vulcan heritage of a straight face and flat voice. Jonathan nodded, assuming only that she was unsure of how to conduct herself in such a place, which in part was true. With that in mind he smiled warmly again.

"They don't tend to bite much here at the 602, but if they do no one will blame you for biting back."

She cocked her brow, taking the metaphor literally, and he knew it.

"Come on. Looks like those two," he jerked his head over to the general Eastward direction of the two distant figures of Malcolm and Trip in the smoke, "are about to commit murder."

It was only then that she too spotted the feuding duo and kept her brow elevated at their violent jerking arms.

"I suspect you're right."

Jonathan's warm smile stayed a constant on his face as he cautiously laughed at what he believed to be one of T'Pol's more blatant attempts at humour. He moved forward once again and this time she with him, now ignoring the taunts her senses in this strange place had to endure.

As the Commander and the Lieutenant sat on barstools only Trip was facing them initially, Malcolm sat at a secure angle to assure firm eye contact with his companion, and to accidentally assure that his back was to them on their approach.

"I'm still not sure I understand your path of reason yet Trip, nor your grudge."

Both were still yet to sight the couple, but T'Pol and Jonathan were now in earshot and Jonathan threw T'Pol a curious look as they listened to the charismatic English accent.

"So if the NX-02 falls under Captaining of Archer again, and when position of First Officer is called, you would 'like to have a proper shot at the post' instead of gracefully giving it to the woman who has the seven years of experience because she 'nabbed it' from you in the first place?"

Malcolm had unwittingly just brought them up to speed. It was T'Pol's turn to flash Jonathan a look, and he could barely keep the quiet laughter from escaping his throat.

Trip's eyes flickered momentarily behind Malcolm's slim shoulders, readying himself to counter-argue that this was not _exactly_ what he had meant, when suddenly he chilled and froze in utter horror. Malcolm downed a mouthful of beer, smiling sceptically as the argument seemed to cool slightly.

"You are a proud one Commander. Not as proud as your Vulcan nemesis, I'll admit, but I could see you chasing her up on that challenge yet."

"I thought it was generally well understood that _pride _is not something Vulcans indulge themselves with. It is considered a _human_ indulgence, not a Vulcan one, is it not?"

The beer did not make it back to the cool steel of the bar stand. It hung frozen and mortified instead as the familiar, slightly accented voice of T'Pol's slipped over Malcolm's tense shoulder and into his ear. Her breath trickled across his beetroot lobe as she bent down slightly, arms clasped behind her back and composure still held with dignity as she spoke directly into his ear next.

"Although the wearing of umbrella sticks behind one's ear is new to me. A custom in place such as these, is it?"

Malcolm could restrain himself no longer. He grabbed the frilly green contraption from behind his glowing hot ear and turned and stood quickly.

"Sir."

He shot his modest blue eyes to Jonathan, but his greatly amused grin would offer no condolence. He was enjoying too much T'Pol's wicked sense of humour, now blaringly obvious to see and appreciate. He did add however with a twisted smirk, "Oh no Lieutenant, you should keep it in. The green sets off your eyes."

Trip too was on his feet, not daring to enjoy the mad blush across Malcolm's entire face and neck or the smile on Jonathan's face. T'Pol was watching him.

"Charles." She nodded and said nothing more. The churning in his gut grew. He daren't chide her for using his proper title.

"So, what are we all drinking to on this fine night?"

Jonathan sat at Malcolm's side and T'Pol at his. As he had promised a prolonged stare had not yet crossed her way. Not even in his proud fame as Captain of the Enterprise had Jonathan even been disturbed by curious eyes.

"Could we be looking at the new Captain of the NX-02 then?"

As Jonathan spoke in the crimson silence that followed his first question he waved over the barmaid and flashed Trip another teasing grin.

"Sorry, my new _First Officer_ even."

As Jonathan's brow flashed up and down quickly Trip's embarrassment broke and his own paler blush diminished with a grin and a headshake, both men slowly sitting back down again. He moved his gaze to T'Pol as he addressed Jonathan.

"Believe you me Jon, if the place wasn't so damn well held down ah'd be the first to seize it. As it is though, well…"

He shrugged in whole fairness to the loyal and well serving Vulcan and raised his whiskey to her. "That's your spot T'Pol, an' it goes t' the better woman, even if she can't be with us on Wednesday."

Her brow was raised and her eyes became questioning. It was beyond her how he knew of news that she herself had only learnt about yesterday. However he had his reliable sources.

Talk had been circling Starfleet, words whispers and rumours all flying hungrily over the barely hidden truth that seared to be released below the dusty layers of gossip and idle-talk. The NX-02 was to be taken out of space dock on Wednesday and some of the old 01 crew would be aboard – predominantly Commander Charles Tucker and Lieutenant Malcolm Reed; these were truths, ones that the men boasted about.

What was most uncertain in the highway of hearsay however was where was the Captain's name in all this? Surely the already legendry Jonathan Archer would have received and no less than accepted an invitation by the respected Admiral Forrest to board the first flight of the next generation of Starships, Enterprise's daughter Columbia.

Yet he had not yet been confirmed on the rumoured list, and the lips of origin that wove these webs of gossip refused to do so.

What some found more interesting still was that his unlikely Sub Commander, the renegade and just as legendry Vulcan T'Pol, was due to fly out on Wednesday as well, just not on the same shuttle as Tucker and Reed.

She had earned her own gospel of gossip, and its main chapters focused heavily on her supposed expulsion from Earth – a story so painfully true that it had become a believed lie instead. 'Why would she be _expelled_ from Earth?' young aspiring Crewmembers and Ensigns would whisper to each other with dark frowns. 'By her own father' others would note, with faux certainty.

And of course a romance had been inked in the Captain and the Vulcan's adjoining journal. It would have been far more suspicious and unsettling if there had not been.

It was a rumour that turned young girls' eyes misty and men's cheeks red. It was a relationship spouted from a grudging respect that had gradually evolved into an insane mutual loyalty, a most bizarre and beautiful friendship, a guarding of each of the other's precious lives, and finally a linking of unsure but strong spirits.

And now they were tentatively fingering the bright fresh edges of what was that most enigmatic of human desires – love, for each other.

What made this part of the rumour so adored by the tongues eager to discuss it was the crossover of cultures involved. To the diehard romantics they had become the new Romeo and Juliet, or Pocahontas and John Smith, or Langdon and Sophie: all divided either by family, or culture or an important mission in life that had to be dealt with before any uncertain emotions and attractions could be discussed.

The rumours were eager to move on with the relationship, but with one snag they could not. Although the world of Starfleet trainees in San Francisco all knew of this beautiful unity of humanoids well, the very centrepieces of their talks did not.

Jonathan and T'Pol knew nothing of the mutual love they shared for each other. They lived in a blissful naivety of emotions and it drove every misty-eyed girl and pink-cheeked boy crazy. And if truth be told Trip was guilty of this too.

"What can I get you two loves then?"

Jonathan turned to the hostess with a glint in his eyes T'Pol had never seen before – looking like that of a teenage rogue chasing a woman he knew he could never catch, but enjoying the chase nonetheless.

"Ruby. Management still got you tied down to this place then?"

Although the said server Ruby was not the young thing of barely early-twenties that she was seven years ago, maturity and wisdom had done nothing more than give her a fabulous emphasis of character and power, which took without asking deep respect from most, and that harmless glint from Jonathan. Ironic that she was only a petite woman in build and height.

"Captain, I _am_ the management now."

It should not have surprised him, this stretch of authority in one still so young, as she had had the potential in her eyes for it when she was still wiping up lemonade stains off the karaoke floor, but he gave her a pleasantly surprised smile and nod anyway.

"Yes ma'am. Well I'll have a whiskey like my good friend the Sub Commander here,"

Trip raised his now empty glass with a mocking smile,

"And she'll…" He stalled on his words and gave T'Pol the silence to speak for herself.

"Simply water please."

Her ears may have been hidden, but Ruby knew the decisive tone of a Vulcan well.

She nodded and was on her toes again in an instant, her charming smile beaconing through the layers of smoke.

"Not a problem my dears. Just give me a minute."

And with that she was down the other end of the bar, conjuring into glasses what they had just ordered.

Malcolm was finally able to sit himself straight again and, with the blush trickling away slowly, face the Captain and the Vulcan. He even smiled comfortably and took another swallow from what was his second beer.

"I presume we're drinking to the first proper undisturbed run of the NX-02 then?"

Malcolm had idly listened to the rumours next to a more eager eared Trip. He was more set however on digging up what wisps of truth were buried in the words. He intended to do in subtly and respectfully too, intending to learn of T'Pol's departure from the mouth of the Vulcan herself.

As he suggested the toast Jonathan's mind jolted back to last night's early morning that he had been awake for.

There had been two phone messages waiting for him on his answering machine, ones it seemed he had missed when they had returned home to the apartment that late afternoon. He listened to them wearily in his bedroom.

"Jon, I meant to call you earlier. As you know Columbia's launching on Wednesday, taking a trip around Jupiter and back with the President and some of her new crewmembers on board. I should have asked earlier, I know, but if you could be there, well it would mean a lot to Starfleet if you could make it. Call me back or come and see me before then." There was a quick awkward silence, and then the message continued to say, "I'm sorry about T'Pol Jon. I know she was a good First Officer, and we were all ready to beg the High Command to let her stay in Starfleet, but they're not for listening to the matter right now. I'm sorry. See you later, hopefully."

The voice of the Admiral cut away and Jonathan had sat crouched on his bed with a dawning headache. T'Pol was leaving on Wednesday. How could he not say goodbye to her and fly away on Columbia instead?

The second message cut into his dilemma.

"Jonathan Archer, as it is understood by the High Command former Sub Commander T'Pol has taken up residency in apartment 187 on Wisk Street, your current place of residency. It would be appreciated if you could pass on to her the news that her departure time has changed to this coming Tuesday, at 23:00 hours Earth time."

Again the answering machine lapsed into silence. Problem solved.

With deep remorse, and only in the end because T'Pol had insisted fiercely, Jonathan agreed to Forrest's late night invitation.

He turned to Malcolm with a smile that was genuine but undeniably sad.

"Of course Lieutenant," he picked up the freshly delivered whiskey," what else would we toast to at this time?"

Malcolm followed his Captain's example, raising his beer and Trip his newly ordered bourbon. T'Pol wrapped her fingers around her tall cold glass uncertainly, seeing Jonathan toast with his crew many times before, but never understanding the custom in itself. She simply watched.

"To the successful maiden flight of Enterprise's offspring, the great Columbia NX-02. May we have _some_ peaceful first contacts on her yet. Goodnight Enterprise. Good morning Columbia."

The three glasses were raised and brought together in mid-air and T'Pol watched the splashing of whisky, beer and bourbon on the counter. Suddenly she felt an impulse to both smile and cry. The idea confused her however, and she did neither, being left to wonder about the 'why' of the shot-lived emotional urge.

"And to T'Pol,"

She was brought roughly back to the present by Trip's familiar Southern twang.

"Who _will_ be back with us, in time, but who we'll miss until then, honest."

She watched his eyes, the cheeky raise of his brow as he implied the 'honest', waited for him to say something else, but he simply smiled and nodded to confirm his words before the glasses were raised again.

A remorseful sadness had settled once again into Jonathan's eyes, and Malcolm too seemed moved in a sombre sense. Trip continued to smile, but pain flirted with his bright and wistful blue eyes.

"We are sorry to here ye have to leave us T'Pol."

"But we're also assuming you will be coming back to us again eventually?"

It was not something she had discussed even with Jonathan yet, but as she raised her eyes confidently she prepared to express her thoughts of last night concerning that of last afternoon.

"I do not intend to stay on Vulcan long, no. I do intent to continue working with Starfleet however."

Jonathan's eyes flashed with a sudden rush of curiosity and tentative hope.

"Although the High Command can with all right keep me on my home world for now, this can, with the same right, only be a temporary barrier on me. I intent to fight their stance and I intend also to end up back in Starfleet."

For a Vulcan she could not have said a more bizarre and uncharacteristic thing – have full intention of staying and working for and amongst humans on their home planet.

For the words to be from T'Pol however, to Jonathan they were perfect.

She feared for a moment they would raise their glasses again in practice of that most queer custom, but to her quiet relief they never. They simply smiled past their wonderment.

"Well, now that that's been clarified," Malcolm's gaze flickered to a pale lit corner of the bar, "who's up for a game of pool?"

. . . . . . .

_-Three Defeats Later-_

They had all lost, rather miserably. It was an undeniable act as well, as a crowd of keen eyed witnesses swarmed around them, scrutinising, cheering and laughing at their every failing move. In fact it had become something of a spectator sport by the time T'Pol had potted the last striped ball against Trip. Trip had only managed a great feat of potting two solids, and only because she had allowed him to break.

She licked her lips tentatively after placing down the cue and receiving a thundering round of applauds. Trip, mid-game, had convinced her (somehow with his Southern charm) to experience with one small sip the taste of fresh cold beer. She had not cared for it. Now the bitter taste lingered, even in the height of her victorious win and after half a glass of water.

Trip was shaking her hand and she slowly shook it back, nodding as he smiled and laughed and hung his head and shook it. 'The better woman she's become again', he had stated just as the last ball rolled neatly into the left corner pocket, and Malcolm had forced him to admit it.

That lingering tingle of the sour brown liquid human men so seemed to adore left not only a menacing aftertaste though, but had shot through T'Pol's system with the water far faster that she had been prepared for.

"Where are the restrooms?"

Jonathan's laugh quietened as he listened to the bold and painfully true comments from Ruby on the men's poor performances and ultimate, spectacular downfalls. T'Pol had crippled him first in the game.

"Oh, to the left at the entrance."

She nodded a silent thank you and left to follow his verbal map.

As he leant against the fuzzy felt of the pool table's opulent green surface Trip raised his beer to his lips and watched T'Pol take absence from the bar to the toilets. His blue eyes skimmed over the hearty crowd, noting Jonathan and Malcolm reminiscing with Ruby to his distant left and the gap in the crowd directly ahead of him where T'Pol had just made her quiet exit. He began to follow her wake.

The toilets were like a sanction, a small silver sanded island paradise that had hardly been touched by the raging smoky tempests which surrounded it.

T'Pol pressed her palms into the rosy marble of a line of sinks, just fresh from bathing her hand with icy cold water, the gurgling of the toilet still quiet in the background. She was sorely tempted to cleanse her face as well, but being not alone and instead in the company of a smiling blonde she refrained.

As the woman left though she peered hard and vainly into the white framed mirror before her.

T'Pol had been told many times before, more in her fresher youth, that she was an' exceptional looking woman' (to quote in this case from Malcolm). That she was 'blessed' with high cheekbones, a flawless complexion and simple, easy eyes. She had been told this though only ever by humans, and once in a whisper by her mother.

'Beautiful you are T'Pol, it cannot be denied without senselessly lying about it.'

However, tonight as she gazed into the bright mirror she felt as though she had been lied to. There was little of this supposed 'beauty' that she could see. What she saw was a tired Vulcan, confused of where her place was, on Vulcan or on Earth, and confused as to where her loyalties lay, with her own people or with the humans. She saw a slowly aging and wearing figure stemmed from years of labelling the terms 'rogue, renegade, wonderer and nuisance'.

For ten years before her time on Enterprise, just as she was leaving her high of youth, this torn specimen had been able to restrain herself and serve well with the High Command as a complete physical definition of what a Vulcan is and should be. She had been a role model for many, and respected by even more.

Then she met the crew of a human Starship – the High Command's fault for placing her in as a 'voice of reason and logic' – and there was where her life had changed, again, forever this time.

The damage that had been done by them was irreversible and although the High Command and her father would try their best to 'fix' her she would always be now a perfect example of what happens when an understanding occurs between Vulcans and humans.

She was still to realise though, beyond her confusion and fatigue, that this was a good thing.

The blue door to the bathroom opened up and T'Pol was with company again. A warm, dark skinned brunette peered curiously at her before realising she was the triumphant snooker player of tonight.

"You're a Vulcan?"

The woman was brutally forward, but not with disgust or fear, only interest. She startled T'Pol who was not hesitant to glance once again into the mirror. An hour of playing had meant an hour of tucking her long fringe of hair back every time she leant forward for a pot. Most of the coarse brown pelt had now ended up behind her tall ears.

"Well they were all saying it."

T'Pol blinked, filing in her lack of a vocal response.

"Sorry. You just don't get a lot of your kind round here, you know?"

T'Pol nodded and the woman left it at that, entering into a cubical to continue her business.

She took one last look in the glisteningly clean mirror. Her ear tips cast eerie shadows over themselves with the numerous scars and carved dents along the fine and damaged edges. Instinctively she lifted her fingertips to the tumbles of hair at the sides. Then she stopped. Suddenly, and looking away from her reflection and towards the door she asked herself the very blatant and very human question, 'Why bother?' and left her Vulcan appearance, for the first time since they had landed, be.

Trip stood, his eyes a casual pool of attractive blue as he gazed at his chipped and stubby nails, but every other stance of his body a decisive sculpture of nerves.

The doors to the two bathrooms were busy, a regular highway for travellers commuting constantly back and forth from the smoky bar to the toilet mirrors to quickly check in their vanity.

He watched countless women and a generous handful of men enter and exit before him as he stood to the left side at the women's entrance. Most would smile as they sauntered by, recognising the Commander either from the well-known group of faces that made up the Enterprise crew, or from tonight after his fresh defeat at the hands of a Vulcan armed with a snooker cue.

He took their daring winks and quick comments with a laugh and a one-liner back, but he still stood nervously, knowing he could not leave this place, or let her leave first, without saying what he had been meaning to say for years now.

A young woman of African skin and fine, fresh features walked out, one who had given Trip a roguish smile on the way in. She passed by with that same smile but said nothing. Trip nodded, wondering what kind of celebrity now he had just newly become.

She had taken her time but finally T'Pol left the domain of the toilet and graced the entrance corridor with her serene presence once again. Trip caught her by surprise.

"Commander?"

Trip settled upon his lips a smile so warm and comfortable that it was hard now all of a sudden to comprehend or even see how nervous he was. His charismatic accent spoken on a flowing tongue made it no easier.

"Ah thought you'd moved onto first name terms now?"

She looked almost apologetic as she gazed upon his lively eyes. "Sorry, Charles."

Trip sighed in good nature. "It's Trip, you know that. You've _called_ me that before."

She continued to gaze silently. She knew well that beyond chiding her for what names she used, he had something else far more important to say. It did not take Vulcan intuition to spot that.

Through his calm façade some of his apprehension began to tauntingly sweat pass.

"Ah'm sorry you have t' be leavin 'us. Not permanent, ah hope?"

Her waiting gaze softened somewhat and she shook her head slightly as she answered.

"As I mentioned earlier, I will try to assure that it does not happen."

Trip nodded, his smile still there but faltering with an emerging sadness, and a slight rush of pink across his nose and ear tips.

"Well, before y go, seein' as none of us know when you'll be back, can ah ask you somethin'?"

She tipped her head to one side slightly, curiously. "Yes."

One nod and he looked her dead in the eye now, ridding himself of his silly apprehension and sweaty nerves, knowing now that he was in an adult conversation with a Vulcan no less, and what had to be said had to be said with certainty and strength, now.

"Y' know ah loved ya, right?"

There was not another question he could have asked which would have better thrown her aback. She felt her mind reel, then jerk, and her Vulcan sense of logic and reason falter as she tried to tell herself that she had indeed heard correctly.

As quick as he asked it she had the answer, but was finding it hard to bring to tongue, and as her gaze toppled to the floor, and she stood unnervingly from foot to foot, Trip began to panic.

"T'Pol?"

Finally and slowly her head dipped in a shallow nod. "Yes, I know."

Relief flooding his pounding heart suddenly he served a nod back.

"Good. But that doesn't matter now," something else was beginning to stab at his ability to speak clearly, and she sensed an unsettling bittersweet pain in his throat, "now that you're with Jon. And… hell ah aint ever seen him so happy an' taken by a lady before."

He smiled a small Southern glint of a smile as she put her head very slightly to the side in the way she was characterised to do, with her brow as high as it would go, but her nerves still slightly rattled.

"I don't understand where your assumption is coming from, but I do believe you're mistaken."

The smile spread slightly in a golden gleam from the dull lights of the corridor overhead.

"Aw come off it T'Pol, ah know ya both better than ya probably realise. He's smitten an' ah'm sure somewhere under that stubborn pride of yours you are too."

The smile, past its bittersweet complexities, seemed triumphant now.

"Smitten?"

The word rolled off foreign and awkward sounding from a tongue not accustomed to saying such 'human-like' terms. It only managed to turn Trip's smile into a tease, even if there was still some degree of hurt and angst in the very corners of it. His voice reflected the more gentle, mature side to his argument.

"Look, if you could ever have felt somethin' for me, then you'll be able t' feel somethin' for Jonathan, whether it's right now an' y' just don't realise it, or it's later when whatever happens with fate makes y' realise maybe he could be more than just yer Cap'in an' yer friend."

T'Pol's brow slowly reclined downward. Her head stayed at its slight angle, but her face muted and her eyes became quiet and restless. They scanned the outline of the Commander's taller, heavier body before landing at his feet as she uttered something of a quiet and barely emotionless statement.

"That is very unlikely Charles."

He could see that for her to deny it hurt something very much like it hurt for him to admit what he was seeing between the two. She didn't give him time to delve any deeper into the conversation though.

"I believe your 'commiseration drink' is waiting for you with Jonathan and Malcolm at the bar, and I understand that beer, as a tradition, is not to be drank warm."

He smiled once again with a small splash of warmth and a small painting of sorrow.

"You're gettin' good with these human customs, ah'll give ye that T'Pol."

She nodded and he offered her the path to the bar first with his arm extended as a gentleman.

"Just… give it some time T'Pol. It's a difficult emotion to realise sometimes."

Her brow rose and fell in quick succession before she once again, with no better vocal response for him, nodded.

He was not as dense with the details of delicate emotions as many may have thoughts, and with the couple of Captain and Sub Commander he was almost confidence enough to bet with Malcolm on his instincts that they, as the rumours boasted, had a strong, genuine mutual attraction. With the Englishman tonight he considered that he might even dare to put down a wager. His smile, draining slowly of any lingering sorrow, became a secrete tease to himself once again.

. . . . . . .

The sky was tinged with a bitter grey, which hung over and spoilt the backdrop of a rolling misty navy night. The moon, if indeed one even existed tonight, sulked away in the background of ebony clouds and not even a shy silvery glow could be seen that night.

Jonathan looked up miserably at the stony Compound they were now just entering. Few were present and around at this hour, and no longer were there the sounds of brushing robes and scraping sandals. The place, like its occupants emotions, was dead.

Reception was closed and the sickly yellow lights of the daytime had been dulled to a meagre foggy glow. T'Pol's keen sight saw no problems in this, but Jonathan was forced to squint painfully and follow the route by ear with T'Pol's footsteps just ahead of him.

They remained on the ground floor this time and headed for the back, the South Wing.

Of the four wings that owed their names to the four points of an Earth's compass the South was both the most impressive in size and the most used. It was the Vulcan's own mini space dock, holding shuttlepods and Starships small enough to be grounded.

Part of the wing was inside, set in marble and onyx, but the gist of it sat forever outside.

T'Pol and Jonathan made their way through the indoor marble and onyx backdrop, but not yet out into the moody night air.

They were being waited upon.

"Captain Archer. Again you arrive when your presence is not required. It is a late hour for a human, I would have expected you to be in bed instead."

Jonathan took a quick glance at his digital watch, initially ignoring Soval. It flashed on and off in a dull yellow glow the new time of 22:44. He then clamped his gaze onto Soval, without the smile this time.

"If you insist on this petty revenge then at least don't deny me the privilege of saying goodbye to her first."

At his side T'Pol was silent. Soval's eyes remained dull and unmoved.

"This way T'Pol. A shuttlepod up to the Phae is waiting."

Immediately she stiffened, and her eyes became dangerously sceptic.

"I am no criminal Soval, why am I being boarded on the Phae?"

Soval had already turned towards the exit, double doors on the far wall in front of them. Now Jonathan was silent, but tense.

"You heard the verdict T'Pol, third degree mutiny and disregard of your superiors. In the eyes of that session and our laws you are a criminal."

Jonathan received a cold look from the Ambassador, but one tainted with a thick air of smug triumph.

"Besides, the NX-02 Columbia launches tomorrow, and so we had to cancel all transport in the afternoon, including the shuttle you were originally meant to board."

He turned again and began to walk, not extending another invitation for them to follow this time.

If ever there was a time T'Pol had tasted hatred on her own tongue, it was now.

A cold breeze swept over the grounds of the Compound outside. Although she did not flinch in it T'Pol felt the unsettling in her stomach grow as it sliced over the patches of her skin that were bare and vulnerable. Jonathan, walking closely beside her, felt a wavering sickness emit from her and so he turned to her in silence. She said nothing, looked only forward and kept herself composed. He turned front again. He too felt sick.

As they continued to tread over the grounds of what appeared to be nothing more than acres of concrete and hangers, always a generous distance behind Soval, the sulky black clouds began to shift restlessly on a bitter breeze and finally the moon showed itself.

Although its light was weak and failing, finally Jonathan was given a better firsthand sight of what else was around them. A gnawing shiver raced down his spine. The South Wing was not deserted, as the empty chilled air had had him believed not seconds before. Soval, T'Pol and himself were hardly the only ones on the field, but instead lines of orderly Vulcans crossed over and through the meadows of concrete with them.

They too were silent as before in the afternoon, but this silence stirred something troubling inside Jonathan. This silence seemed to leak into the air, hush the very scatterings of grass and trees that were around them, mute the wildlife that flew across the air, and buried under the ground. It was as if they were inside, and being hoaxed upon by a giant optical illusion.

"Perhaps I should explain to you Captain, what is going on here."

They could not see his face but it was evidently laced with satisfaction.

Jonathan took yet a better look around as he tried best not to harvest a brood of anger with Soval's voice. To their right passed a line of Vulcans, following one by one in strict, orderly single file. To the front and the back of the line of around ten also stood couples of paired off Vulcans, marching side by side.

He had to frown in the dark for a moment as the light of the moon continued to fade and shimmer with the rolling clouds. He thought perhaps the silvery glow was simply toying with his sight even as he watched the bodies pass. But no, what he saw was indeed there. The two sets of coupled Vulcans were all heavily armed and heavily shielded. Each carried their own basic stun-and-kill phase pistol and donned tightly plasma proof vests.

"I will apologise and confess," Soval's voice cut though his chilled bemusement, "that the Compound does become something of a military operation at night. We work with your army and your government to help control such international issues as illegal outer world immigrants, and supposed alien threats, as well as the few of our own race who manage to step out of line, namely the _V'tosh ka'tur."_

For a third painful time Jonathan took a better still look at the passing line. They were not all Vulcan. In fact only one was, who walked at the front; a weakly built female who to Jonathan looked no older than seventeen.

"The Phae is a transporter for such criminals, but others who have passed the boundaries of the law in other degrees and fashions are entitled to board on it as well."

Soval seemed to enjoy himself to every quiet extreme. He never once turned to glance upon T'Pol but it was all too easy to imagine the spark of victory trumpeting in his eyes now. In less than fifteen minutes she would no longer be the ultimate sore of his life, the bulging pain in his career, the sole individual who, aided by a Starship of humans, had demanded his constant watch like an infant for three years short of a decade now. Soon she would be back in the capable and stern hands of her father, and she would be controlled and disciplined once again.

Soval stopped their moonlight stroll in front of two armed Vulcan guards whose eyes could be seen glinting dully in the murky darkness.

"Ambassador," they chirmed together, their free hands rising to perform the traditional Vulcan greet. Soval briefly concurred. Then he nodded to T'Pol. Understanding they advanced.

Jonathan's eyes briefly widened as he realised that in a rush this was to be the moment when T'Pol would leave him. The last he may see of her for a long, long time…

He swiftly stood in front of her, entirely shadowing her from the approaching armed couple. Whether his sharp human tongue or blunt white fists had to be drawn to do it, before another pair of hands dared to touch her he would say his goodbye.

"T'Pol…"

The guards stopped short of Jonathan, eager to follow out their orders but unsure of how to handle the human. One ill-placed move on a man as important as this would mean a bombardment of greedy human paparazzi, and it was hardly what the Vulcans needed right now.

Soval sharply raised a hand to silence their problem solving thoughts. They were to do nothing until he uttered the word for it. He was aware that goodbyes for humans were often painful and difficult. He had no disgruntlement for allowing Jonathan this harrowing moment.

The former glorious and proud Captain put up his hands to rest on her slim shoulders. Ever unsure of physical contact, this time the once notoriously stubborn and loyal Sub Commander only glanced at his palms' positions and then into his shimmering eyes.

"You were good to me T'Pol, as a Sub Commander who always told me what I didn't want to hear," he smiled weakly, "and as the last friend I ever thought I'd make. I might still want to knock you on your ass sometimes," she raised a brow but understood the humour implied, "but I wouldn't have swapped you on that bridge for anyone. Not then, and not now. I'll miss you, but I sure as hell know I'll see you again on Columbia, if you're still willing to come back as my First Officer. Okay?"

She nodded silently and he smiled with heart-breaking grace.

"Here."

He suddenly dropped his arms and began to dig about his worn brown jean pocket. His hand resurfaced bearing two pieces of paper and a small metallic object.

"I don't know how well you understand sentimentality in objects, but I want you to have these."

She had become curious and confused. Firstly he handed her the paper, which turned out to be photographs. She held them in front of her carefully, her fingers holding tentatively onto the edges so as not to smudge the images.

She remembered well the times when both pictures had been taken, and looked upon them almost fondly.

The first was of herself, Jonathan and Trip on one of Trip's birthdays. For any human to gaze at it, it would be a most hilarious of scenarios to imagine. Malcolm had dashed into the Captain's dining room that day when he had heard the commotions erupting from on the bridge. The men had spoilt themselves with bourbon, leaving T'Pol to watch their drunken antics with utter confusion, unsure of whether to be secretly horrified or amused. When they had lost his birthday cake to her lap she had been neither, instead opting to leave with traces of anger sparking in her eyes. When Jonathan had realised however that Malcolm had come and gone and then come again armed with a camera he had done perhaps the boldest and stupidest thing in his career yet and grabbed her around the waist, holding her back with Trip at their feet to allow one of the most fantastic photographs in history to be taken.

She could hear Jonathan laughing as she gazed upon the picture with the memories stirring in both their minds.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't resist."

She placed that picture behind the other, and gazed upon the second shot. Its story was much less hectic. Hoshi had been composing a 'photo album', as she had explained the idea to T'Pol once, to send back to Starfleet. She had managed to gather shots of all the eighty-three crewmembers individually, including also Porthos and some of Phlox's more appealing looking creatures. Then she had gone asking for group shots, her best yet being a picture taken unknown to Trip and Malcolm of the duo arguing down in Engineering. What she had requested to finish off her album was a picture of the Captain and his First Officer in the centre of the bridge, just before the chair. And so that is what she had gotten and that was what T'Pol was gazing at now.

"She's quite the camerawoman, Hoshi."

T'Pol nodded slightly, before she carefully tucked the pictures into the belt of her dull sandy-brown jumpsuit. "Thank you."

He smiled before extending his hand out to offer her the object she had sighted with the photos before. "Here, take this too."

He took her hand for her and pressed what it was into her palm, wrapping her fingers tightly around it for her. As he let go her fingers fanned out again and she looked upon what she had been given with swelling emotion.

"I got it after I'd been to the vets with Porthos."

To the best of her knowledge this was what was called a 'ring'. For its size it was heavy and she guessed correctly that it was composed of solid, flawless silver. It had human lettering engraved into its inner ring. She read it with a knot in her stomach.

_'Columbia_ _and I will be waiting for you.'_

He didn't give her time to question his gift though before he stepped forward again and very carefully bent down to kiss her tentatively on the forehead. His breath shuddered then and suddenly he wrapped his arms around her, threatening never to let go.

How likely it was that she would be coming back in his lifetime now seemed weaker and weaker a possibility against the odds. With this, as a cruel twist of irony, he was finally beginning to realise the true immensity of his feelings for her, and saying 'friend' earlier could have been the biggest understatement he had ever announced. He felt himself breaking, and held himself together only enough to finish saying his goodbye.

T'Pol for a moment was unsure of how to reply. She remembered well him embracing her as such back in Starfleet medical what seemed like a decade ago now. Back then the appropriate response had been lost on her, and she had been forced to prompt him to let her go.

Now it was the very last thing she dared to do. Now she moved her own arms around his back and as he felt her do so, he held on tighter.

His shuddering breath was echoed in her hair, his nose and mouth buried there as he slowly smiled the saddest smile that could ever be painted upon such a noble face as his.

One side of her own face was cradled in his warm chest and she felt she could have stayed there for the night and day to follow. In fact it was all she wanted to do now. She felt in a moment she was about to lose something more precious than any teaching or High Command position could ever be. She could barely comprehend the notion, but it was about to happen.

Soval waved to the anticipating guards, finding now as good a time as any to intercept. They obeyed without a sound.

Suddenly there was a hand upon Jonathan's shoulder and it began to tear him away just as another seized T'Pol's forearm. Like pulled away a plaster the two were ripped apart, Jonathan shoved to one side as T'Pol's arms were forced behind her back and held there.

"Wait! No please, _wait_!"

Jonathan lunged forward but it was a highly anticipated move and so he was intercepted by the guard who was not holding T'Pol's arms painfully behind her back, where she still clung onto the ring desperately. A gun was held up as a barrier and the unmoved Vulcan guard held down his ground before Jonathan.

T'Pol twisted, the pain in her shoulders awful from how sharply she was being restrained. Although the guard was stern with her she jerked herself enough that she was able to turn and face Jonathan for one last time.

Her heart tore. She felt almost winded as she watched his hopeless face disappear into the thick darkness. Emotions came crashing down upon her like a guillotine to severe her detached soul and set it alight with that most awful of human expressions – angst.

No longer did she feel confident enough to believe even slightly that she would see Jonathan again, unless she fought now to.

The guard frowned finding T'Pol's squirming resistance more difficult to handle than he had first suspected. Holding her skinny wrists with one large hand he reached for cuffs, and that was when she made her desperate move.

Her arms broke free as she thrust them down hard, breaking his hold with pain, fending him off long enough she hoped so that she could begin to run. As she took off on a quick-footed sprint she unwittingly threw the ring onto her left forefinger.

Jonathan watched a commotion of shadows in the darkness, his heart thundering as he heard shouts of protest, pain and saw jerky movements.

Soval could see before him what was happening and his eyes widened then scolded as he watched T'Pol suddenly burst from the sightless dark. It was Jonathan's turn to widen his eyes, but in soaring hope that they would at least be able to finish the goodbye.

They never did.

T'Pol's guard had composed himself once again. Shaking the throbbing heat from his wrists he reached for the side of his belt and pulled free the gun he had holstered. He was a wielder skilful enough to make Malcolm jealous. His aim, many had commented, was deadly.

A lashing of green light sliced through the darkness with vengeful accuracy, hitting its target straight and true, dead between T'Pol's shoulder blades. She fell without a sound.

**_"No!"_**

Soval's face dropped to utter unshakable calmness. He looked down at T'Pol before back up to Jonathan, who was only just being restrained by the other guard.

"She will be fine Captain, she was only stunned."

Jonathan wanted to kill him. There was now no mute in his raging tempest of hatred and anger. He just wanted the smug Vulcan dead.

For a second time he had to suffer the torment of watching T'Pol disappear into the night, this time over the guards shoulder.

"I hope you are able to understand Captain," Soval took a few strides forward, ending up before Jonathan's devastated face, "that it is highly unlikely you will ever see her again."

On that one last hike of triumph Soval left, and the guard finally dropped his hold on Jonathan.

He had just become a man who had loved and lost, but who had not known that he had loved until he had lost.


	12. Hell Hath No Fury Like An Archer Scorned

_A.N_

My exams, I passed all my exams! I got a bloody A for English! And Modern Studies and my Intermediate Two Maths! And a B for Art! God knows _how_ but I thank him and well, frankly I'm still reeling. This chapter would probably be a bit longer with an extra bit at the end if I hadn't been so stressed over these results, and so shocked when I got them this morning.

Anyway, about this chapter. Well… it'll either sink or swim with its audience. I'll let you decide that…

Thanks for the huge appreciating of the last chapter –_smile_–

. . . . . . .

Twenty-eight minutes past midnight.

The shadows moved like liquid smoke, every corner they grasped or body they flooded over they took and flooded over with pleasuring menace. Although the room had four walls and a ceiling, as it should, stepping in onto the heavy wooden floor felt like you were stepping in to a gaping abyss. Unless you had been born with the eyes of a nocturnal creature's the shadows would sweep in to render you utterly blind and clench a fear on your heart. Every corner was unsettlingly cold. The metallic fibres of the room were a biting chill to touch, and air thin and icy to breath.

Fingers tapped in quick succession of each other on a table. Like long blue claws they shot into the wood of a feverishly polished table, echoing the sound of a patient predator. Material moved and whispered in the abyss. A pair of heavy heeled boots came to rest quietly with content on that well polished table. Through the smoky shadows a hand was raised idly and on its silent command a weak orange light fell quietly upon the place, switched on by a stiff figure in a corner.

His eyes, sharp and red and barely marked at all by a grey pupil looked up at the heavy steel door eagerly as it began to open. He ran a hand through his wispy black speckled auburn hair and tenderly licked his parched blue lips. His long scarred and chipped antennae stood forward to attention. At the feet of his chair something moved restlessly with scurrying claws and the same anticipation as the red-eyed tyrant.

"Yes?"

The oozing impatience in his voice was warning enough that the figure behind the door was to stop his fearful delay and bring himself forward quickly, which he did. He stood in the doorway, a halo of white light drowning his stout outline and his quivering hands. He had little reason to be nervous though. He was the bearer of good news.

"They've launched sir."

The hot crimson red of his eyes suddenly became greedy with delight. Sweeping his boots off the table with an eager thud onto the floor, sending the scurrying shadow that had settled beside his chair running, his blue palms pressed into the desk as he leant forward enthusiastically.

"The shuttlepod?"

"Yes sir. The Phae will be occupied in twenty standard Earth minutes."

"And the shields have kept us out of any unwanted limelight?"

"Yes sir."

"And everyone that we had anticipated is on the Phae?"

"Yes sir."

"Including—"

"Vulcan 1805 is aboard sir, yes."

This time he forgave the interruption, sensing a rising excitement in the messenger that echoed his own.

"Good… Good, get the boarding teams assembled then. Five men from this ship to board the Phae with me, three from her sister to destroy the shuttle. Then heed those over the Compounds to stay on alert and wait for my word. Those in Vulcan space have to watch their tails for now, but no actions just yet."

With a simple nod the messenger's job was understood and he departed.

The excitement in his crimson eyes was growing dangerous, becoming borderline insanity. It was not an uncommon sight, not one that was often feared by his crews anymore.

He turned swiftly to the stiff figure in the corner.

"Do you have the Vulcan documents?"

He nodded and reached for a cabinet that stood in the corner with him.

"No, wait, leave them for now. We'll wait until we have what we came for, then they'll be of use to us to show to her. Perhaps finally we'll have clarity, no?"

The figure fell back into a stiff silent stance.

"Not much of a talker. Fortunately I prefer that in a crewman."

He nodded a thank you but no more. The crimson eyes turned front again and he laughed quietly in good nature.

"You have no idea how much I'm going to enjoy this."

. . . . . . .

Twenty-nine minutes past midnight.

Porthos raised his head from where it rested on the cushy arm of the couch. His keen hound nose had already sussed the scent of his owner traipsing quietly down the cold brown hallway outside. There was barely a wisp of enthusiasm for life in those shuffled footsteps and Porthos let a small whine scamper from his throat.

Jonathan ignored the bitter biting winds that crept through the ajar windows and cracked doorways of the hall. His coat hung loosely on his shoulders, he didn't bother to pull it closer around him or take consideration of the rising goose pimples along the back of his hung neck. He wore a listless scowl across his brow and his dulled eyes sighted nothing but the dusty ground before him.

Reaching his door with the gleaming gold carvings on a heavy block of oak wood that read _'187, Archer' _he fumbled for his cardkey and slowly raised it to the little security box. The door swung open before he had even finished swiping. A fresh breeze ran from the entrance as the hinges swung slowly open.

Through the darkness there was a small commotion as Porthos slid off the couch in a characteristically ungainly manner and trotted happily over to Jonathan. The little beagle's cast had been removed that day; any movement he made was a happy one.

Jonathan ignored him however as he stood utterly still and warily. He dropped the key back into his pocket and peered uselessly into the shadows at a blinding darkness. As Porthos' little wet nose began to tickle his ankles he finally willed himself forward on a silent tread, avoiding all the spots of the floor that creaked as he advanced into the cold living room. A clump of grey shadows of the sofa instantly caught his sharp attention.

In the top drawer of the dresser that sat at the end of the apartment's short corridor rested his phase pistol, moved from its old spot in the stiff kitchen drawer after T'Pol had mentioned the fiasco she had gone through with trying to seize it for her own defence against Paul.

Slowly he opened the compartment and claimed it into his steady grasp as he began to creep forward now. In his restless churning gut he had the strongest and most uneasy feeling that the lump atop his sofa, which shifted slightly in a light sleep, was indeed Paul himself.

Hammering his palms together the lights were slammed on and Jonathan aimed his weapon with fury at the sofa dweller who leapt clean in heart thundering fright.

"What? No, don't shoot!"

Behind them Porthos began a maelstrom of furious barking and growling, sensing his master was on the defence for himself.

Both men blinked frantically in the new wave of hot white light and as Jonathan gained his sight slowly he was allowed to realise his mistake.

"Trip?"

The Commander, who regained his eyes a few seconds later, blinked once again and looked on guiltily at his emotionally drained former Captain. He quickly offered him a half smile and a meek wave.

"Jon, hey, you're back. Ah'm sorry, ah didn't know what time you'd be home at so ah waited, and ah must have fell asleep, 'bout an hour ago ah guess. Ah never realised how late it was."

He took another look at the digital wall clock as it flickered to 00:30.

There was a sudden clatter as Jonathan threw his pistol back into the drawer.

"Trip, what are you doing here?"

The Southerner had to remind himself that tonight of all nights he would have to draw out all the patience and sympathy that he held in reserve, as these were not character traits he was often associated with.

"Look, ah'm sorry for invadin' but ah couldn't leave ya alone tonight. Ah know how much she's come to mean to ya. Ah figured t'night wasn't exactly gonna be a stroll in the alpha quadrant for ya so ah thought y' might 'ppreciate a bit o' familiar company. Ah haven't exactly seen much of ya since we landed anyway, aint exactly been the best friend for ya, though ah also figured y' had T'Pol for company so what'd y' need me for, eh?"

Another half smile graced his golden toned face.

Jonathan no sooner after felt a swarm of guilt approach his emotional front and the fatigue of his voice slowly trickled away to be replaced with the weakest but truest of gratitude.

"No, I wouldn't mind a bit of company actually, especially if you're offering it."

A strange relief shot through Trip as he sat back down on the couch and waited for Jonathan to join him.

"So how was it tonight?"

If there was anything more forward about Trip it was his ability to ask the most direct of questions about the most delicate of matters yet in the most sensitive and thoughtful of ways. The note of tenderness that held true to every tone of every word spoken was enough even to prompt Jonathan to open up.

He sat with Trip and Porthos as he blew a weary sigh.

"I watched her go as she was carried off on the shoulder of a trigger-happy Vulcan guard into a flying prison with Soval behind her who was enjoying every last minute of it. I'd sooner be demoted to Ensign again than have let tonight happen, and I can't stand knowing that there's not a damn thing I can do about it."

Trip managed a frown as he heard 'flying prison' and sat back with quiet sympathy as Jonathan best described his torment, but came nowhere close to emphasising his true pain.

"What d' y' mean a 'flyin' prison'?"

Although he did not delve into details of the night, not even beginning to imagine that he could, Jonathan described to his dear friend what only an hour ago he had been made to endure, including the ever sombre face of T'Pol, right until they heard about the Phae, and then as he watched the shuttlepod take off into space with her securely aboard. Finally Jonathan sagged, his neck craning back over the edge of the couch as he looked up at the cream ceiling, lost.

"She's not coming back, is she?"

Trip's frown, which had lasted the duration of Jonathan's sketchy recount of events, softened until it disappeared and he looked upon his friend with aching compassion.

"Don't say that. She'd give you a lecture if she knew you were saying that."

Despite the emotional odds Jonathan managed to smile, very weakly and shakily. He knew however, better than Trip understood, that T'Pol had come to realise with him the very slim chances they had that they would ever reunite if her people continued to be as stubborn and self-righteous as they were being right now.

"I suppose you're right."

There was a chocked falter in his voice. Trip offered him a tender pat on the knee.

"Ah know it seems unlikely but ah just can't see this being the end of it. If nothin' else there's gonna be wars about this one."

Although it was a quiet joke Jonathan could hear some hopeful sincerity spoken at the tail end within the casual accent. He nodded, the smile falling from grace but his eyes renewed with a flickering light. For tonight, just now, he was reluctant to go on with the issue.

"You know they show water polo highlights at this time…"

Jonathan fingered the remote, which he picked up from the arm of the couch. He decided to test out Trip's pity. He was given a smile from the corner of the Southerner's mouth.

"It's your apartment."

The digital wide screen television instantly came to life. Porthos looked at it briefly before settling his maw over Trip's lap.

After flicking through a couple of sports channels and eventually finding what he wanted the two men settled back in the couch. Trip quipped a brow at the screen.

"Highlights from the Texas/California game."

Jonathan nodded. "Perfect. We hammered your asses in that one. There's beer and chips in the fridge if you want any."

Trip huffed in a mocking pout then got up to fetch the greasy snacks and alcoholic beverages. One of Texas's poor failing moments of defence had just been shown.

Silently Jonathan's mind lingered on the word 'perfect', not appreciating his own choice of vocabulary at all. He didn't mean it now, and he doubted he would every truly mean it again.

. . . . . . .

She groaned and in an instant the groan was swallowed up whole by the four walls around her. She attempted to move but a searing pain shot down her back and she came to realise she had not been stunned by simply just a standard phase pistol. She moved her hand and felt sheets of thin glossy paper-like material move under her fingers. Apparently the guard was more sympathetic than he had had her believe before. The photographs must have fallen from her belt and he hadn't had the compassionless heart his earlier actions had boasted to leave them where they had fallen.

She tried to move again and found with her resurfacing conscious that the pain was subsiding and becoming bearable, almost numb. Eventually she opened her eyes.

She had fallen into the grasp of an abyss. If indeed there were four walls, a ceiling and a floor around her to compose a cell they were entirely lost in the frozen darkness she had now become a shadow of. She was left to assume only that she was lying atop a steel bench and that beneath her palm were indeed the photographs and that upon her finger was still the same ring Jonathan had given her, and not a cruel duplicate her captors had replaced to mock her.

"Would you like the light on?"

Her heart clenched and she sat up in a shot, her head spinning from disorientation but the fright helping her forget that. In the sightless dark there were footsteps across a metal floor and another figure began to cross the room, perhaps even right in front of her. Disturbingly she could not tell, as she could not see.

"Well?"

"Who are you?"

Her sense of reason began to fall into place and she gathered to her, her level-headed Vulcan composure. If the owner of the voice were anything to fear, then whoever it was would have most likely attacked already in her sleep.

"I'll put the light on then."

As the voice promised the darkness quickly evaporated and there was now a weak orange glow to speak of, and the bear minimal of sight to savour.

T'Pol rearranged herself on the bench, sitting with a stiffer, straighter back and her feet upon the ground. She fought off the temptation to scratch her back and rub across the bridge of her nose and attended instead to seeing who her cellmate was.

"I'm sorry if I startled you. Unfortunately it is something I'm well known for doing."

In an instant T'Pol could see why. She was a meek looking Vulcan, barely muscular, barely anything of build at all. Her arms hung dully at her sides like fleshy bones and her legs, although hidden under a fanfare of silky blue material, appeared to struggle uncomfortably to keep her standing. She had hardly a chest and an entirely flat rear and stomach. It appeared as though she had not been fed properly in her entire short lifetime.

However it was none of this that caught T'Pol's attention, she had seen poor builds such as these before, they were unfortunately not uncommon amongst humans. It was above her bony neckline that she found her eyes rudely drawn and stuck to.

Above the neckline the girl had scarcely a shred of Vulcan features upon her. Her skin was frighteningly pale, white almost, even down her arms, and her eyes a spectacular and harrowed blue. Her thinning hair was a shimmering blonde and her ear tips barely pointed at all, only just enough that you could not deny she was indeed a Vulcan.

"I'm not what you think I am."

Her voice along with the texture of her skin suggested she was only twenty-nine, perhaps thirty. To a human she would have seemed not a month or so beyond seventeen.

"I am a Vulcan, nothing more."

T'Pol finally realised that after the girl had first spoken she had made no indication that she had heard her, or that she was interested in anything beyond how she looked. She pulled her glazed gaze up and focused better on the girl's eyes.

"I apologise. I did not mean to stare."

The girl, sensing T'Pol's truth in her quiet voice soon crossed the room and took a seat on the steel bench beside her. In a moment her tense shoulders and shaking fingers seemed to ease slightly.

She was a decorated figure, with various accessories for the wrists and fingers and around her neck, and even for her earlobes. T'Pol had seen many of the female crew of Enterprise with pierced ears, for them to wear 'earrings' in, Hoshi had explained once. It was not a concept she understood however, jewellery. Aware that she was wearing a ring for herself though, she fingered it almost guiltily in the new hypocrisy she boasted.

"I watched him give it to you. You must mean a lot to him. Rings are an important symbol to humans."

T'Pol looked up at those haunting blue eyes again and offered the girl a short look. Quickly she understood, and left the ring and Jonathan out of the conversation.

"My name is T'Kai. The humans call me Kai though, and I prefer it."

T'Pol's short look soon faded into silent curiosity. She was finding it difficult to bring herself to talk, feeling for now she simply wanted to withdraw into contemplation, or meditation, but a Phae cell was hardly the place for either of these.

"And you are T'Pol. If you don't mind, it's something of an honour to be here with you, amidst the circumstances."

T'Pol refreshed her gaze for a second time to mild surprise.

"Oh?"

T'Kai took the invitation to explain herself.

"I work for Starfleet, or did until last Thursday. I was the only Vulcan working there at the current time, except for yourself, although you were in space. They would talk about you a lot, about the entire Enterprise crew really, but I liked to hear what they had to say about you. They said that you were just like one of the crew up there, that you had fitted in better than most human Science Officers would ever have. You gave me reason to think I couldn't be like that myself. I worked well with the scientists in Starfleet and I was hoping for a place on Columbia, under Captain Archer's command."

Seeing that the Vulcan chose to talk in fluent English, T'Pol simply complied by doing the same.

"Why do you work for Starfleet? Why not the High Command?"

In the brief moment of silence that there was between them, T'Kai laughed very quietly through her nose. T'Pol's eyes flashed with bewilderment as she did so.

"I've been shunned on Vulcan for many years because it was rumoured my mother mated with a human instead of her bond-mate. It's not true though, the rumours only came about when I adopted my… distinct features in adolescence. Even the High Command believes it though, and so is too wary to adopt me into their numbers. On Earth I found refuge from that, and people willing to accept me into their environment as I was, eventually, until the High Command detained me and boarded me onto the Phae."

"On what charges?"

"There were none. They told Starfleet that their reason for my arrest was confidential, but they have not even told me as of yet the justifications for their actions, so I assume there are none."

T'Pol felt the visual memory of her session come back to mind. She remembered glancing upon the stony face of Admiral Forrest several times over the short fifteen minutes it took. They had been ready to fight for her, but their resolve had crumbled and with it her last express route back to Earth. She wondered if the same had been done for her frail companion.

"I am sure there will be plenty of opportunities on Vulcan for you to prove your capabilities for working with the High Command."

T'Kai nodded slowly. "I'm sure there are, but that is not what I want to do. I would sooner rotten on the Phae than work under a Communist rule."

Strong words, T'Pol noted for someone in such a restricted situation. Very human words, she noted in the back of her mind.

Her back growled in pain. She shifted uncomfortably, restraining herself from fingering the burn that was tightening a patch of her skin directly between each shoulder blade. It was not a wound she minded bearing though. It reminded her that she had at least tried.

"Is that Captain Archer?"

The young Vulcan's curiosity had seized her tongue over the silent promise she had made herself not to mention the man T'Pol had just been torn from.

The photographs sat at her side so she picked them up carefully, wedging them between her belt and her hip again.

"Yes."

"He appears intoxicated."

There was a tip of amusement on T'Kai's bold but respectful tongue. T'Pol looked down to see the picture of herself, Jonathan and Trip sitting above the other more composed one.

"He is."

"Ah."

The pale sip of light that came from a dirty orange bar upon the mucky green ceiling flickered on and off briefly several times. The Phae was not a ship that was kept in good condition. The lingering smell of other, perhaps less… groomed passengers still lingered in each soiled corner, and even scatterings of various different colours of blood from various different species stained the walls from previous voyages. T'Pol's nose twitched in the stale air, but did nothing more.

Then the ship lurched.

It was no gentle rock back and forth as both T'Pol and T'Kai discovered, finding themselves lifted from the bench and scattered over the floor. They hadn't the time to compose themselves before the ship took another dive forward and left them thrown up against the wall. Finally after a third merciless jerk that left them bundled in a corner the ship fell into a stationary lull.

"Engine problems?"

T'Pol picked herself up and offered a hand down to T'Kai.

"Unlikely."

T'Pol had sat through both enough bouts of engine trouble and hostile attacks to be able to tell the difference.

"It seems the Phae is being targeted by heavy weaponry."

A darting of fear crossed over T'Kai's eyes, but despite her rebellious attire, and tongue, she was still very much a Vulcan with the very capable ability to suppress her emotions. She stood warily at the door. Hurried footsteps stormed by.

"By who?"

T'Pol stood back slightly, looking to the ceiling. "That is impossible to determine from in here. But from reviewing the Phae's history it could very well be Klingons, if indeed we have one aboard with us."

She could tell T'Kai wanted to express fear again, but she admired her restraint that she did not. T'Kai seemed like a Vulcan ready to burst into the nature of a human's, and T'Pol admired that she did just managed to keep herself in check.

"If there is one thing we must grant about this ship, it is its ability to defend itself. I doubt that whoever is attacking will have enough time even to board before backup forces arrive."

T'Kai looked upon her with slight scepticism. It was clear that she wanted to believe T'Pol, but from the scars that riddled her arms and hands it was also clear her past would not quiet let her keep an optimistic mind about the matter.

The ship took another sudden trembling hit and T'Kai seized a deep crevice in the wall as T'Pol was forced to brace the murky floor again. Below her the cold steel began to vibrate. However this was not the shuddering force that ran its course through Enterprise when she was being pushed into maximum Warp. This was the jittering of a ship being held in its place whilst it tried desperately, and without success, to escape.

"She's being held down."

T'Pol saw no point in lying to T'Kai. The young Vulcan's knuckles went a sickly white against her already paling skin as she kept a firm grasp on the scarred wall.

"I wonder where that Klingon is."

T'Pol quipped her a brow, almost as a sort of comforting smile. T'Kai herself did.

"They say that you've smiled before. And cried. And even laughed. It's funny that you still hold on so tightly to your emotions when the humans must have shown you by now that it's not always bad to let them show."

T'Pol only lowered her brow, and said with some restrain upon her tongue, "I fail to see why that is 'funny'."

The struggling vibrations eventually stopped. The ship fell into a second unsettling lull. T'Kai's fists grew tighter still on their slipping hold of the crevice.

"Are they boarding?"

T'Pol looked untouched by fear. Carefully she stood up again and brushed herself off.

"Most likely, if it was indeed even an attack in the first place. There are several different other reasons for why the ship could be behaving as it is. It could simply be we have wondered into an uncharted asteroid field, or even—"

She never got to finish her attempts at comforting T'Kai.

Heavy healed boots echoed outside, just beyond the doorway in the narrow grey corridor. They stopped just in front of the door. A shadow flickered through the crack in the bottom. T'Pol fell still, and T'Kai moved slowly away from the door, backing into the orange shadows beyond.

"I think we may have been boarded."

T'Pol turned to her fretting companion, about to agree on the inevitable when the heavy steel door finally opened. Hearing the gentle release of pressure on its locks alone forced her almost against her will to turn back round.

"Sub Commander T'Pol."

With the fresh wave of bright yellow light that flooded in through the open doorway T'Pol felt a blindness stab through her head before she was able to distinguish the bulky shadow in the doorway. The first thing she did notice as she blinked furiously, and slowly brought forth her gaze again were the antennae, and she felt her heart clench again.

"I'm going to enjoy having you aboard."

And then, for the second time in only an hour, she succumbed to an involuntary unconsciousness before she had even hit the floor.

. . . . . . .

He looked down bleakly at his watch with watery eyes damp from exhaustion and an unshaved chin. The saliva in his mouth was sticky and his throat tasted dry and rough. His muscles were stiff and his hair unkempt. He was no longer twenty-one anymore.

It was only shy of three o'clock. It was still as dark as midnight, and colder still than then as the painfully early hours crept torturously by.

Needless to say he could barely close his eyes to sleep. Beside him Trip and Porthos hadn't this problem, wishing away the dawn as they should in deep dreamless sleep. The T.V sat on mute, playing a reel of adverts that not once possessed him to purchase what they desperately tried to sell to him and the nation. He despised commercials. He also despised the tearing emptiness in his heart, but at least with the commercials he could turn them off.

He lifted the remote to do so when suddenly he was frozen numbly in mid-action. A news bulletin, one which unknown to him stopped every channel's morning schedule, bombarded the screen before him and instantly possessed his thumb to hit the volume control.

_"Governor Kate Williams is asking for an immediate evacuation into underground shelters now for all Californian residents. So far the body count at the Vulcan __Sausalito Compound had soared to five hundred as the bombs continue to hail down and destroy the complex." _

In a small box at the top left hand of the screen a live feed proved her devastating words. The Compound's main entrance sat in rubble as missiles, which seemed to come from every direction of space itself, continued to fire upon the massive stone building. There was no digression over the images of the dead Vulcan bodies that lay trapped in amongst the fallen structure, and their numbers were not few.

_"Where these attacks are coming from is still yet unknown and so far Starfleet and the High Command have been able to say nothing more than order an evacuation. All we can report is that the damage is devastating, and the loss of Vulcan lives are still yet soaring as we speak so I repeat, __Governor Kate Williams is asking for an immediate evacuation into underground shelters now for all Californian residents."_

It was all he had to hear. Before he had even allowed his flooded mind to absorb properly what he had just witnessed he knew exactly all about what Starfleet and the High Command were desperately trying to figure out themselves.

He slowly turned his head to the left. Trip sat in reeling shock. He could not speak, he could not bring his gaze to Jonathan. He could only sit and continue to watch the newsreel with horrid devastation.

"We need to get down there."

It was the only prompt Jonathon gave him to start moving. He got up and grabbed both his jacket and his phase pistol and commanded Porthos to heal, of which for once he listened and obeyed. "Come on."

Something in his angry and distressed voice was enough to stir Trip's gaze forward onto him.

"It's like the Xindi… all over again."

Their contact of eyes became fixed and stern, before Jonathan shook his head sadly.

"No, not this time. This time they know exactly what they're doing, exactly what they're hitting and exactly who their prime targets are."

"What?"

Jonathan threw him his own denim coat from the hanger on the wall in the living room.

"I'll tell you when I tell Soval."

. . . . . . .

Starfleet's doors were brimming. Hundreds had leaked into the corridors, the curious and confused out to see what the sudden uproar through the air was about. That curiosity however was unfortunately short lived and quickly destroyed as with the truth of the matter came panic and terror.

The tactical team were alive and fevered with work. Officers ran North, South, East and West desperately trying to execute a successful and safe evacuation amidst the chaos. Malcolm was at the heart of the fray, Forrest having immediately handed him the responsibility of head tactical officer without question or doubt about it.

"You ten take the back quarters. Stewart," a young female officer's head appeared above a team of forty in the main entrance hall, "you're in charge. Round up the stragglers and place them on a bus as fast as you can. Head for the mess hall after that. It's doubtful there'll be anyone in there, but we're not going to take any chances, okay?"

"Eye Sir."

She hardly needed a prompt before she led her small, silent and sombre team out.

The last devastating report was thus: The bombs were heading towards Starfleet. Every few minutes Malcolm was refreshed with the latest hits; the motorway between San Francisco and Sausalito, malls and offices along the way, anything that must have looked of importance to their attackers from space. The injured were soaring, the body count with it, and the trail taking a direct route to Starfleet as it went.

"Gallacher, your team take the roof."

Another eleven officers departed swiftly.

There were many reasons for why Malcolm was head tactical officer now, and when he was aboard Enterprise. His dead aim, his love of the position, his sharp knowledge of weapons and his keen strategising abilities. However none of these were of any comparison to his level-headed and calm, reasonable attitude in even the more surprising and hellish of situations such as these.

His eyes would barely flinch as he watched Vulcan casualties teeter back and forth, freshly evacuated from the Compound which had been torn apart within minutes just half an hour before. The idea of an invisible enemy could not penetrate his steady heartbeat and even blood pressure. He thrived on the adrenalin and above all his attitude leaked its influence over his team and slowly but surely he and they began to ease the number of terrified Starfleet employees out the building.

"Collins, I want you and eleven others in the docking bay immediately. If they attack anywhere first it will most likely be there. Get the stragglers and get out as quickly as you can. We don't know how much time we have, so assume we only have minutes."

He watched his forty dwindle away until he was left with a team of seven for himself. He needed thirteen. He wanted a team to lead out and orbit Earth as soon as possible. He began to comm. Stewart.

Admiral Forrest appeared from the West Wing. Soval, cut and bruised across the face but lucky compared to too many of his counterparts, was at his side looking perhaps the most phased and perplexed he had in his entire long lifetime. Malcolm gave his darting eyes and disturbed features only short consideration before he spoke into his communicator.

"Stewart how are you doing?"

"Sir I sent five up to the mess hall. I'm pretty sure we're about done here at the back though."

Malcolm's mind was instant to calculate the next move. "Good. Perform one more sweep of both areas, look for anyone hiding or still asleep in their quarters or in the bathrooms and then report back here. I need a team up in the air a.s.a.p. Reed out."

The Admiral had begun to bark his own orders out as his arms moved frantically pointing back and forth to various other high-ranking Starfleet personnel.

Although calm was a taboo word for the moment some funny breed of order had begun to settle. People knew where they were going, the injured and utterly terrified were being transported by others, the buses were quickly heading toward underground retreats and the scenario was beginning to play out as it was supposed to, as it did in the drills. The drills that had been arranged after the Xindi attack, and were ones that everyone everyday had preyed they would not have to execute for real.

Malcolm watched six recruits return from the back quarters and race towards him, Stewart at the rear as she ushered on a crowd of fifteen or so pale faced stragglers still donning their nightwear around her. Travis and Hoshi were amongst these numbers.

Despite her desperate demands for the crowd to keep moving the duo stopped at Malcolm, who gave Stewart a grim pat on the back as she went and told her to keep going with whom else she had flocked together.

"What the hell is going on?"

Malcolm quickly told the other five who had just come down from the mess hall empty handed to wait with the standing twelve. He would grab Stewart in a moment.

"We're…" Malcolm caught sight of something black and squirming in Hoshi's arms but had to force himself to ignore it, attending to Travis's question instead, "under attack, or at least the Vulcans are and by the looks if it we're next on the hit list if the line of bombings across San Francisco so far are anything to go by."

He spoke with an eerie calmness. Hoshi and Travis listened with dizzying horror.

"What? By who?"

Malcolm could not answer Travis's second question, as much as he so dearly wanted to.

"We don't know yet. You'd better just get yourselves out of here for now. I'll catch up later."

A weak smile graced his lips and he gently jerked his head towards the door to prompt them to move out. They never got the chance however.

A grinding of rubber tyres outside signalled not the launching of a bus but the speedy and reckless parking of a car. Gravel scattered fearfully as doors were throw open and even before the vehicle had managed to come to a complete stop new bodies threw themselves into the inside fray.

Jonathan geared himself into a flat sprint as he pushed himself through and against the tilde wave of escaping employees, his eyes set on one person alone as he went, the Admiral. Trip cantered at his heel, his face pale and his eyes menacingly confused. Neither saw their three senior crew counterparts.

"What the _hell_ is going on?!"

The Admiral stopped barking orders as he was approached and gazed upon Jonathan with some haunting hybrid of relief and desperate terror in his eyes.

"We have a State emergency going up. The Compound was destroyed half an hour ago, so was the main motorway to Sausalito. We have to evacuate now, before they reach Starfleet."

Jonathan's eyes were mad with overwhelming shock as he watched the hell of panic burn around him. Trip spoke up shakily for them both.

"Who's 'they'?"

"We do not know yet."

Without warning, without expectance or suspicion Jonathan turned like a dog bitten. He grabbed the freshly spoken Soval around the collar of his outfit and threw him hard against the nearest marble pillar. His eyes were on fire with frantic angst, his mouth twisted into bitter rage.

"You don't know? Well I'll tell you who 'they' are Trip,"

Trip and Forrest looked on in silent aghast. Behind them Malcolm, Travis and Hoshi approached. From the medical wing two Denobulans, their arms laden with medical supplies, quickly became a part of the sudden hushing crowd as they listened to the torn, heart breaking words of Jonathan.

His eyes were freshly drowned with hot lashings of salty grief and his teeth grinded together, barely allowing him to speak. His voice shuddered but he placed his words clear enough for the gathering crowd to hear.

"'They' are rogue Andorians out there in space bombing you. They've been planning this attack for years, on the main population of Earth bound Vulcans. They'll attack the Egypt Compound, and the London one, and the Barcelona one, all after they bomb out California, and just for the hell of it, probably Australia and Japan as well. They'll do _exactly_ what I warned you _personally_ about two years ago. They'll carry out the very same manoeuvres and plans I warmed you about, but you wouldn't heed because my sources came from another Andorian, an allied Andorian. They'll kill _millions_ just like a warned. But again you wouldn't listen because you're an ignorant _**bastard**!_"

"Jonathan!"

As Forrest chided him a slowly sickly smile crept over the length of the Captain's tear soaked lips.

"Wait, Maxwell. You haven't heard the best part of it yet. You know what the _trigger_ was?"

There was a shuddering silence now, so Jonathan continued with ironic triumph in his voice.

"T'Pol. You sent her up there on the Phae and she was just who they were waiting for. You see, T'Pol and I have a bounty on our heads amongst these people, just like I told you about two years ago. You didn't just imprison her Soval, you **_killed_** her!"

The words' echo haunted the hall and the ears of those who stood in it.

The Ambassador took his time trying to swallow, the panic continuing to swell in his eyes.

"Captain, it is perhaps a little rash of you to accuse me of such a thing, is it not?"

Jonathan looked almost sick with hatred.

"Then why did you send her back to Vulcan? Why did you put her on the Phae when her only crime was going into the Expanse and showing your high and mighty lot that the High Command isn't the only place every Vulcan wants to be in?!"

"Just as you have dealt with your… terrorists in the past Captain, so must we now."

The entire hall seemed to cringe as Jonathan tensed.

"Terrorist…"

For a long moment of silence Jonathan kept his trembling grip tight and secure on Soval against the pillar, who in turn didn't dare to move. He held eye contact viciously and relentlessly and kept a murdering glint in his expression. He seemed to growl with every hard drawn breath and his fingers twitched as he fought off the temptation to slowly tighten his grip further and further still.

"Is that what they're calling her these days?"

Finally, he let go.

Soval stumbled back and away from Jonathan where he was hurriedly taken in by the arms of other important High Command Vulcans who had been watching closely.

"You'd better prey Soval that when I find her, she's still breathing."

A heavy hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.

"Jonathan!"

The Admiral's stern and mortified expression landed on his cold, tear-strung eyes. Their gazes fought, until Forrest's hand slid off Jonathan's shoulder and Jonathan turned to the crowd, spotting for the first time his old former senior crew around him, save his First Officer.

"If Enterprise isn't up there in an hour with me and my crew Admiral, I want a damn good reason why not."

Inevitable, underground talks were on their way.

. . . . . . .

The underground base, almost like a cave but excused of that image entirely by its curved steel walls and solid wooden flooring, fought off bounding echoes on its walls as they raced through the twisting hallways and crevices, reflecting the thundering rage of Jonathan.

They were in what had been given the title of a conference room, simply a hollow of the underground refuge that had a table bolted to its floor. But nonetheless it was a conference room and around the bolted table sat Jonathan's senior crew, the Admiral, the Ambassador and a collection of military Vulcans.

Military Vulcans. At any other time, in any other circumstances he might have found the concept amusing, joked teasingly about it to his Sub Commander who would have tolerated the snides with a silent expression.

Now his chair flew back as he stood up furious at what he was being made to hear from Soval.

"Sit back? Let them drift above our heads until they go away on their own? This isn't a landing party of five Andorians Soval, this is an entire damn fleet, probably more! I can assure you, they're _not_ going to back off."

At the other end of the table Soval sat with his arms folded calmly across his lap and his face unmoved by any expression.

"If they have stopped the bombings then we can only assume the most logical conclusion, and that is that they are pulling out of their attack. For what reason is impossible to determine, but any move we could make may provoke them to continue another attack instead of retreating on their own grounds."

Jonathan pressed his palms into the table, leaning forward with eyes ablaze.

"Saying they do pull back. They still have a ship full of Vulcans in their custody, say what, twenty, thirty?"

"Forty-five, and they are not all Vulcans. Only seven of them are."

Jonathan restrained himself.

"Even better. So do we let them drag these prisoners off for interrogation and most likely torture and only then after that for them to be held to ransom or to be killed, or do we try and rescue them? Or better yet, sit on our hands and see if them give us them back on their own grounds?"

Soval turned calmly to Forrest.

"I suggest taking Captain Archer off any attempts at a rescue mission. His personal emotional attachment to the situation could prove fatal at any crucial crux of a rescue operation."

"Soval, if you have a problem, then you say it to me."

Around them the others were deadly silent, even the Admiral could not bring himself to voice an opinion yet.

"I am simply saying Captain, that your infatuation for T'Pol could easily cloud your judgment. However if it were left as your decision, you would take yourself and your crew on a rescue mission now. Therefore I need an objective opinion on whether this would be entirely wise."

"Well you haven't exactly been wise yourself lately! Or do I need to remind you of what prompted all this? Of who wasn't listening two years—"

"Jonathan, that's enough. We're helping no one and getting nowhere with this. I know T'Pol's up there and I know this is a dangerous and unpredictable enemy, but we have to think before we can do anything. And if this is how you're going to be on a rescue operation then I'm afraid to admit Soval has a point. Your First Officer can't be your main and only concern here. You have to focus on the bigger picture, on the other Compounds, the other places you said could be targets and the other prisoners. Now if you can do that, I'll let you take a team up in Columbia, but if you can't then I'm going to have to allow Columbia's Captain full charge of the situation."

Slowly Jonathan pulled his chair back up and sat, his silence haunting around the eyes. Debates had been raised about what ship to pull out of dock. Jonathan would not be getting Enterprise. He only agreed to this, eventually, because of its superior weaponry range and hull plating, and Enterprise's need for essential repairs and upgrades.

"Thank you. Soval, you say your guards would be able to prove themselves useful as a tactical team?"

From the corner of his eye Jonathan watched Malcolm come to a quiet alert. In his eyes was not an eager look.

"They often deal with volatile criminals, yes, including before Klingons and Andorians. They are more than aptly trained for at the very least to serve as a backup team to Lieutenant Reed here."

Upon hearing his name Malcolm took his turn to stand, slightly more composed than Jonathan but none less agitated looking.

"With all due respect Ambassador, my officers are more than enough in number and capability to fight against these rogues."

"And yet you brought a team of MACO with you into the Expanse."

"That was a very different situation and besides the point here. This is an enemy we more or less know, that we've dealt with in the past on Enterprise. Forty of my officers are more than enough for the job, _thirteen_ would do."

The Admiral drew forth his voice of reason again. "Malcolm, sending ten armed Vulcans aboard with your team wont do any harm. I'm going to have to insist they come."

Malcolm looked on the verge of issuing some sort of argument, but he turned to Jonathan instead who, with his chin on his hand, nodded reluctantly. On that he sat, not content but willing to abide with his Captain.

"You do not have a full engineering team."

Trip sat forward on his chair, not prepared to stand for the Ambassador, but prepared to lock eyes across the table.

"Two of your former Ensigns are in Britain at the moment are they not?"

"Starfleet have others trained for the job down here with us y' know. Ah could pick out the best for the job maself right now."

Soval nodded patiently. "Yes, but I see no harm in sending up a few of our own technicians with you. Above anything else they have superior knowledge of Starship engines, and if you insist in sending only Columbia up there as… 'bait', and not some of our own ships as well then it would be wise to send up a few Vulcan engineers, no?"

"Well they wouldn't have 'superior knowledge' we need if you'd just share it with us. Don't give us that bull now Soval."

He kept the volume in his voice at bay, but the volume in his eyes spoke loud enough for all to hear.

"That matter aside for the time being Commander, I will insist in sending up one of my own if need for dire repairs arises. He will cause you no bother, and obey your orders."

Slowly Trip sat back, not exchanging glances with Jonathan, not needing to as they mirrored each other's agitation to perfection.

"And your medical team?"

Phlox sat furthest from Jonathan, far closer to Soval as they were separated only by a corner. Although he had been ecstatic to see the Captain again, it was not in better circumstances, and his features were unnaturally grim. He turned to Soval with humourless stunning blue eyes.

"They have me, and my son."

"Is that all?"

"It sufficed in the Expanse."

"You lost lives in the Expanse."

"And saved many more. With all due respect Ambassador, I have medical skills and experience, especially with humans, that far surpass the skills of your best doctors. Vulcan medics have yet to fully understand the human anatomy, I do. And the Vulcan one as well."

He looked briefly to Jonathan who, it could not be denied even in the shadows, was smiling.

Soval sighed. "Very well, we will supply you with any materials you require."

Phlox nodded, placing his own slightly subdued but still characteristic smile on his face. "Thank you Ambassador."

The Ambassador was unwilling to linger on the subject.

"I assume that you are not taking a full eighty-three crew with you Captain."

Jonathan sat up slightly, raising his chin from his hand. "No."

"Then I also assume Ensign Sato will not be accompanying you?"

Jonathan looked from the Vulcan to his pale linguist who sat closest to him with a frown. "Yes."

"But you will hardly need a linguist on this mission. The Andorians speak English, communication if they allow it should not be a problem."

Jonathan cocked his head to the side mockingly.

"And if I need a negotiator? Her skills do go beyond deciphering alien languages."

"I can provide you with an aptly trained negotiator."

Jonathan dared to laugh as he sat back slightly. "A Vulcan negotiating with an Andorian. I doubt even T'Pol would be able to pull that one off. You should have enough logic to have figured that one out Soval."

The Admiral sat tensely, finding it above difficult to keep his leading Captain's manners in check.

"Soval, Jonathan will choose his crew just as you've chosen yourself who you want to board with his team."

Soval leant forward slightly. "Then I am to assume you are taking this Helmsman with you as well to fly."

Travis and Jonathan exchanged looks and weak smiles. "Of coarse. This is my senior crew Soval. I trust them with my ship and my life. They served me impeccably for the past seven years, there's no doubt they'll serve me just as well now."

"You are without a First Officer though."

Jonathan felt a grinding in his stomach. She would be here, directly beside him at his very side right now if the situation would have allowed it. As it was he had to suffer blows of guilt and angst whenever another mentioned her, even in casual passing such as this.

"Commander Tucker is third in command, he takes T'Pol's post when she's not around or unable to."

Soval looked above ready to offer yet another Vulcan crewmember to him.

"You will _not_ be giving me another First Officer."

He silenced him on that.

"Are we in agreement then?"

Both Ambassador and Captain turned to the Admiral. Archer's senior crew looked directly ahead at Soval's. Jonathan stood up.

"Yes. Now lets move before we lose any more lives up there."


	13. Nervy Calm Before The Storm

_A.N_

_-cringes- _Yes I know it's been over a week and it's not exactly last weekend, but considering I started back school on Wednesday I'd say ten days before a new update isn't bad going, also considering I was finally updating pieces that had been left for weeks and months now.

Well the direction this story's taking, as of last chapter, seems to be as good as it has been, so I suppose I can march on without the flames of hatred. Be warned though, the rating of this piece will probably be upped soon for individual future chapters, and I _will_ be returning to that mean, evil mode I used earlier on in the story against T'Pol. Heed what is said at the end of this chapter.

And with that I will leave you and let you all read on.

……………

She groaned again. She turned as devastation shot through her body. She opened her eyes and realised she had finally been caught.

Not a shred of her sickly mind could find and collect itself amidst the failing clarity of her vision and the taunting mist of her memory. She tried to sit up, but found no power in her arm muscles to do so. She tried to speak, but could not think of what to say. She tried to see but found for a second time she had been forced into blindness.

Her nose tingled. She twitched it but in vain as the sensation continued to haunt her nostrils. Still without either the strength or the want to move the sensation soon flared and seconds later she sneezed violently. She had not sneezed since having a childhood take of _tow_ (best known as a fever to humans) when she was just gracing twelve. Neither she nor her stomach nor her head cared much for the bodily reflex.

She coughed slightly afterwards. The air was thick, heavily recycled and too clean. She found its taste sweet and tangy on every shallow intake of breath. Eventually she slowly closed over her eyes again.

Time past, the only thing she was certain of. But neither knowing the hour nor the length for which she had been unconscious she had little bearings on which to collect and reassure herself. Only her stiff muscles and numb right arm told her she had been still and dormant for far too long.

She sighed. She had not sighed since she was twenty and had found her first year learning under a High Command's University course about Newtonian and Quantum physics patronisingly easy, and that summer particularly warm.

As she contemplated over this memory time continued to pass. The air continued to catch the back of her throat until she was certain her stomach would react and force her to vomit, although she hadn't anything in her stomach in which to vomit with. Carefully she curled into herself as she lay along a cool steel bench and, wrapping her shivering arms around her tense torso, she willed herself unsteadily into a trembling sleep.

Apart from helping time pass, the sleep did nothing more than force her to remember with lingering remorse what she had left behind on Earth. It also reminded her of what it was to dream, and why it was that she religiously meditated.

……………

For a moment he forgot everything. For just a small sweet moment he forgot his situation, his duty, his heavy burden of dependability, the fact that he was again responsible for an entire crew's life and instead he allowed himself and his soaring heart to be taken away by the sights before him.

Jonathan had wanted Enterprise. He had fought tongue and word for his old ship back, but nothing he suggested, bargained or negotiated with was to get him his ship back, _his _ship. Instead Columbia was to be taken out of her stable and given the responsibility with her new Captain of chasing after their invisible enemy, and unfortunately Jonathan could see why. Her weapons reigned supreme, her hull outshone Enterprise's, her speed was a flawless 6.2 and she was not, so very unlike Enterprise, in need of necessary repairs and re-cooperation. Columbia essentially did not disappoint in the end.

Jonathan climbed tentatively out of the turbo lift. Behind him were his crew – minus Phlox and Trip – and a new Vulcan science officer. They slowly came in after him and only the science officer did not stop to fill his plain brown eyes with the scene that lay before them.

The bridge was easily half a bridge bigger than her sister's. The floor space was generous and the roof that bit taller. The screen stretched a spectacular length along the front and rose to an equally impressive height. Each station had been expanded almost to the size of an opulent office cubical and each panel before them boasted an extra stretch of settings and commands. Malcolm had more weapons on hand and Hoshi had more languages. Travis had more manual settings and their science officer had a spectacular compact super-computer that would surely have impressed even T'Pol.

Archer himself had his chair. His taller, wider blue leather swivel chair. Very carefully he sat down and slowly eased himself back in it. Travis sat in front of him and Hoshi positioned herself to his left. Malcolm sat slightly behind on the right and almost directly behind him was his science officer.

To know Jonathan as Captain Archer was to understand why, even in such a crucial and dire time, he found it easy to lose himself for just a brief moment as he found himself back in command of a spectacular feat of technology. Against the odds he even managed a weak, wavering smile.

Suddenly the room came alive. Like a wave from a restless yellow ocean the lights on the panels and walls flickered on one by one, the colourful ripple moving forward to the front where lastly the screen came alive with the infinity of space for the grand finale of the powering up of the Columbia NX-02. Archer felt the floor underneath his boots shake and then settle into a steady slight vibration. On the right arm of his chair the comm. was activated.

"Sir, we're all ready down here."

Archer nodded. "Right Trip."

Then his hazel gaze fell upon Travis who had already turned to his Captain, his fingers lying restless and eager on the controls before him. Between then they nodded and the Helmsman dared a smile. Archer moved his fingers over the comm. again, treating the entire ship to the sound of his voice now. He spoke with grim humour, understanding that now being in such a situation, crew morale was essential.

"Crew, this is your Captain speaking. If you want to go down in history, or even have something to tell the grandkids when you're older then you'll forget your doubts, listen carefully to me and get this ship moving. Engineering prepare to go to Impulse. Hull team release the docking clamps. Tactical set up the shields and arm the ship as well as yourselves. Everyone else, cancel your reservations and report to your stations."

Lingering in silence for a few seconds he finally shut off the comm. and nodded once again to his pilot. To hell, he suddenly thought, with Soval's concerns over his personal indulgent with this matter. Of course he had personal concerns and of course they would cloud his judgment. But his grit determination to bring back the Vulcan who had changed him as much as he had surely changed her would be the edge that any other suitable Captain in this situation lacked. It would be the push that saw him and his crew victorious, and the renegades Shran seemed to hate and fear so much brought to a timely diminish. It was the edge that had worked for seven years and now, sparked with this insane concern he had for his old First Officer, it was the edge that would turn him almost into a tyrant against the new enemy.

So he gazed upon his pilot with eyes set ablaze in the light of this edge and fists clenched to signal his readiness. He pointed to the infinity of space that sat just beyond them.

"Mr Mayweather, take her out."

As the clamps were released the ship suddenly found herself in motion and those standing held on as she took her first few tentative steps out into space for the third time, this time to be her first wholly successful run.

Archer's heart soared again and he sat forward in his chair, thinking only briefly about how spectacular this moment would be if it were only under much better of circumstances.

"Remember, keep her in orbit Travis. No point in asking for a chase if they're only going to end up invisible on our tail."

Without turning around the Ensign nodded, heeding the instruction that had already been issued to him several dozen times by apprehensive tongues already. Archer knew this but it offered him a strange comfort to repeat the only thing that was concrete for the moment, his own orders issued to him by the Admiral. He could not help but think as he watched the stars fly by, how very Vulcan of him that was.

……………

Her fingers fumbled over the hot skin of her agitated red neck until her nails were able to rip themselves across the patch that burned with an itch. She scratched feverishly then tenderly touched the lump of skin that had swollen with the pointed tip of the dart. It ached with a rash and finally she let it be. Reluctantly, pulling the cool of her fingertips away from the epicentre of the angry area of skin she allowed the reaction to continue healing on its own, knowing that trying to interfere with the process would have its consequences in the next few hours to come.

She began to feel an awkward clarity pass by as the warm fuzz of her subconscious lifted and let through the cold reality around her along with a slight confusion which skirted the edges of her awakening mind. She refrained from groaning again though.

As she forced her stiff body up and slid her back against a wall until she had levered herself into a comfortable sitting position she came to realise a few things that had escaped her when first she had tried to come awake. Most predominantly and perhaps most disturbingly she was not surrounded in darkness. Hardly at all in fact as her cell was well lit with a homely orange light and even boasted a barred window across the steel door. There weren't any shadows to shroud her, or cold wispy breezes to taunt her bare face. Although this place was hardly her quarters on Enterprise it was a far cry from the soiled box she had been forced to take residency in on the Phae. It was bare but it was dry. It was silent but also odourless. She was alone in it but had some mild warmth to surround her. The result of the matter was that she did not feel threatened.

T'Pol finally stood up, taking a few seconds to seize her balance as she teetered on the balls of her feet. She could not allow herself to feel safe, or comforted in any way. She had been tricked by a false sense of security only a few times before, yet every time scolded herself for it afterwards. This was unknown territory and was to be treated with the same scepticism and wariness one would possess being aboard a Klingon ship.

She dared herself to walk forward and slowly but steadily she did, towards the cold steel door ahead. Her eyes were narrow only because they were stiff themselves in the new light and new consciousness. She kept her sights focused on the door, or more specifically on the window that carved into the door. Beyond that there was a pitch of blue that on a guess seemed to be a wall, and therefore a corridor beyond her prison. Just like her cell it was empty and silent, although she could not tell exactly if it was warm. Far from being her top concern, the temperature outside, she kept her thoughts focused instead on where she was, who had her and where perhaps the cavalry were at this time. The 'who' of the matter soon came back to her though in her fragmented memory.

"Andorians…"

She whispered it on a warm current of air that billowed gently by her face as she continued to head towards the window. She did not say it with doubt or question – who had her was now inevitable with the memory that she had of just before she had hit the floor on the Phae. The sight of the antenna was unmistakable.

Footsteps came alive just as quickly as she uttered the name of the species. The sound made her muscles flinched and she stopped in her path towards the window for apprehension that a gun may come between the bars. The echoes were heavy heeled and quick, eager almost and important. She began to fall back, stepping over again to the bench that she had awoken on, subconsciously seeing it as a haven from harm although she did not consciously realise this.

There were no voices but an atmosphere of grim pleasure began to thicken the clammy air around her. Shadows bounced along the blue backdrop of outside, moving with the beat of the footsteps, grey reflections of antennae waving back and forth, outlines of weapons and armoury haunting her vision. Almost abruptly she sat back down again.

And then the commotion stopped. The shadows were no more, and now she was faced with the bodily reality.

"Andorians."

This time the whisper became a clear ring in her throat and she said it with the accompaniment of fierce brown eyes and coursing dirty-green veins. She amused them and painted on their blue faces mocking blue smiles.

"Observant Vulcan she is. I see why her superiors abandoned her. Become too observant, you soon realise that the High Command has a corruptive streak. That the High Command just isn't quite for everyone."

Of the three faces she could see in a crowd of perhaps six or more not one set of lips moved to speak. They sneered, but they were obediently silent. The voice instead came from the back, from the left of behind the door. It was a pleased voice that seemed to be enjoying the taste of a fresh victory and savouring the sensations it played along his wretched tongue. T'Pol hardly moved, quickly dried herself of any emotion or any expression as the flare died across her face and watched quietly as the crowd parted to let the voice through. Then she tensed.

His crimson eyes focused on her like an angry heat, setting her nerves ablaze simply with a striking gaze that was like one of a hungry and skilled predator. His expression was something of a crude personification of evil, not quiet a sickly, hellish evil but a playful, young one ready to hurt and torture in new and unusual ways. It was a modern evil for modern methods of extracting what information one wanted from a stubborn victim. T'Pol sat back from this.

His smile was daunting, almost unnatural but very undeniably genuine. He seemed to laps up the sight of his prisoner greedily with scarred and twisted lips and hungry teeth that flashed an unbearable grin to her. She almost cringed.

The sight of this burly, broad shouldered and crudely intelligent looking figure put defining emphasis in his voice when finally he spoken again, and it was blatantly clear from that alone who was in charge on the ship.

"And you would know all about that T'Pol. You've had too much experience of the real universe to ever be content again with the religion of laws that your people have laid down for you, haven't you?"

As expected he did not get an answer, but did receive a stony glare. It gave him all the more reason to continue smiling.

"Clever little Vulcan we are as well, probably too much so or you wouldn't be here right now."

There was a commotion of wires and technology and the steel door began to open on its whirring automated hinges.

"This is hardly the place for us to be getting properly aquatinted in though, is it? Perhaps some food, some fine ale before I begin on the interrogation. We can swap details, and then we can begin a start on why you are here, no?"

T'Pol said nothing. Her captor motioned to two of his men.

"Be gentle now, she has had a generous bout of copper chloride running through her system for the past twenty-four hours now. She'll be… tender."

Two guns poured down over her, aiming steadily at her temples. She looked slowly from one to the other and saw her situation left her no room to gamble an attack or less likely still an escape. Carefully she stood, understanding as the guards moved a few steps away from her that they would indeed not touch her unless she provoked reason for them to.

"Wise Vulcan. Still has her sense of logic still. Good, good."

Why this pleased the Andorian she did not know. From the mad glint that hid in the back of his eyes it seemed evident that he wanted any excuse to out and out murder her there and then, probably with his own powerful, trembling fists. Only his keen smile gave her any reason to doubt this theory, and even it faltered every few seconds.

"Take her to my quarters. Have the chef prepare something… fresh. Bring out the finest ale and have the documents sent up with it."

One guard from the back left down the corridor, his name not even uttered but his responsibilities clearly understood.

T'Pol stood at the doorway, a coldness settling in her eyes which was all that flawed her monotone expression now. The Andorian extended a hand for her to take.

"Shall we then?"

She stared at the dry sallow palm blankly. He nodded and the guards departed ahead, opening doors and keeping their guns trained as they went.

"I think we shall. My name is Yulae. You will never utter it to another soul outside of this ship because before the week is over you will, my dear, be dead."

……………

T'Pol is a Vulcan. To her people, or more importantly to her superiors, she is as human as one can be without having physical human D.N.A. However despite her nature she is a pure breed, and began life with only one flaw from being a perfect specimen; she was born female.

Humans learned a long time ago that sexism was an illogical and discriminative act. They figured that women deserved as equal share to the world as her other half did. What most lacked in physical strength they compensated well for with traits such as a smart mind, a good nature and above all the ability to carry new life. By 2030 any signs of the unbalanced past between the sexes was gone and the rare acts of sexism that were still committed punishable by life in prison.

The problem with the _Vulcan_ race is that most all members, male and female, have these traits (minus the very latter), making the men clearly superior with the added bonus of extra bodily strength (although it is ignored that only the females can carry life). Although it is never discussed, because of this it is obvious that every father wishes for a son, which would then be his child's first strong advantage in life. Unfortunately thirty-five percent of fathers receive a daughter, and Taron was one of these fathers.

Many Vulcans forgave Taron for showing obvious pride in his two sons, one with a keen eye, the other a keen mind. They sailed easily through school, quickly adapted to the apt standards of behavior demanded in Vulcan society and no one ever doubted they would go on to serve the High Command well just as their parents had. With offspring doing so well Taron and T'Chall saw it only reasonable, and many strongly agreed, that they have one more son.

T'Chall gave birth to a daughter one year later.

Taron never showed any bond with his daughter. He demanded more of her than he ever did his sons and was far stricter throughout her childhood with her, becoming more of a feared mentor than even just a detached father. It served her well though as she did do spectacularly well in school, better than either of her brothers, and was taken in by the High Command's Science Directory where she served dutifully on several Starships under the command of several highly respected Captains for many years.

However she was for many other years before this a rogue, and nothing her father did could stamp this out of her. She sometimes showed emotion and had difficulty seeing why this was on some occasions wrong. She yearned to be expressive and this often devastated what weak relationship she had with her relatives and the race in general.

She was also weak. Stronger than a human but weak for a Vulcan, even a female, it was a harsh reality both father and daughter learnt on the Toch'mir hills.

_"What insanity of the Vulcan race are you T'Pol? Today I catch you _drawing_. Not less than a week ago I caught you _singing_. What will these give to you in your future? Make you a fool I fear. Read through these, and if you dare to run off again I will have your collection for it."_

With tears held back by fierce restraint she ran her slim fingers over her collection of photographs of other worlds and species that night. Often Taron would feel disgust over his daughter's hunger to explore, a very uncommon and illogical passion for a Vulcan to have. She was of fifteen years before finally the flare was seemingly dragged out of her, needless to say the collection burned to ashes to flag post that day.

Others knew how hard the unfortunate female worked. She followed the life of V'Lar and drew much needed inspiration from her, took her on as the role model she had been lacking as she grew up. She wondered over how the Vulcan Ambassador related so well to other species, treated them fairly and reasonably in accordance to how they treated her. She had a glint in her eye that even the young prodigy lacked. But her father was making sure she would eventually become the Vulcan she was supposed to be, even if it did take time.

It was by fate that this happened though, not any deliberate act of her fathers but an unfortunate three day placement on a prototype Vulcan Starship with new engines that saw her fall in line with her kind.

_Andorians_

She had heard the species' name whispered before, almost nervously on elders' tongues. Of course she had heard of the race's reputation, heard what had to be said about them. But she had never seen one, and never actually judged the race for herself, would not until she actually, if ever, met one. She felt it was again one of those occasions where her own race's arrogance got the better of itself, and mislabeled another kind because they were simply more primitive, or naïve than they.

She was one of twenty on that ship that learned the most difficult and direct way what a fugitive Andorian fleet was capable of.

At her station T'Pol had been keen to prove herself through enthusiastic work, which did not go unnoticed. She prided herself on the congratulations she received, the nods that went her way and even the respect of her Captain that she won over, a post she yearned to hold one day.

She simply had scanning duties to execute but she was thorough and quick, and never miscalculated. So when she stated that she had detected a ship with an abundance of Andorian life signs on it she was rather… disappointed that no one believed her readings.

"We are still in Vulcan space Ensign, no Andorian would dare to come into this region."

Later on she received many apologies for that comment.

The ship was stuck critically several times in one swift attack. The Captain had demanded to see on screen what was out there, but they could see nothing more than a blank patch of space. Only T'Pol's scans had shown any signs of a source for the abrupt attack, signs of a ship with an abundance of Andorian life signs aboard. It was then that their engines had been destroyed and they suddenly became no more than a floating hull. Everyone in the engine rooms that day had lost their lives. More casualties were yet to come.

The ship's Captain had hung doubtfully over T'Pol's shoulder for what could be considered a mistakably long amount of time. In the time it took him to realise that his Ensign had indeed been right the ship was struck again and a hull breech erupted on D Deck. They had had to seal off that section, and watch as they lost another seven of the crew.

The ultimate truth that they were being attacked by Andorians came when one appeared on the bridge's view screen.

He had said nothing. He had barely moved. He had just looked on with an incredible crimson glare and a hatred that was poisonously pure.

The next attack was for the bridge. There had been a tremor and then an eruption as the entire bridge seemed to tip forward, sending every posted Vulcan forward across the room. T'Pol had flown into the screen, her shoulder blades cracking the haunting vision that had watched the events with dizzy pleasure. She had barely survived the attack, because she was weak, and it was the first thing her father reminded her of when she had woken up three weeks later.

Her recollection, if ever she is asked about those events, is shaky, but she does remember and always will remember that face. She will tell you in a bare whisper that she was there when that face was put on trial and then one week later executed without question or doubt. She was there when she watched his son weep and his wife beg for mercy. It was there that she became a model Vulcan and showed no pity for the Andorian family, and no emotion for forty years thereafter.

She is here now with that son, and is about to pay for the distant past sins of her superiors.

……………

Yulae sat before T'Pol on the opposite side of a sturdy wooden table, quickly settling back in a chair before placing his boots on the table comfortably. He motioned for T'Pol to join him and behind her the guards insisted so. Thereafter they were left alone together in a quiet, stale room, his supposed quarters.

"You have more history behind you now than most any fully aged Vulcan will ever have, you know. They should be talking about you for years to come yet. I imagine your name will appear more than a couple of hundred times in archives and books, most likely ones found in human libraries. Your death should be spectacularly well recorded."

T'Pol sat stiff and expressionless. She fought off the tormented screams as she remembered why the crimson eyes struck such a cord in her, and not because of their striking irregularity. If he was not the son then he was a relation of some sort, and most likely with a grudge buried within his irrational state of mind. She watched the slight insanity that continued to echo in the glint of his gaze, or the drumming of his fingers, or in his twisted blue smile. There was very little doubt that anything he said was no less than the hard, delightful truth.

"I know you won't talk, not until I tell you why you will. But I'm a curious creature, and I'm dying to know what this is about, so we'll see if you wont say something to me first, before I have to start prying."

From under his chair he gathered in his hand a thick pile of papers and threw them across the desk, watching the documents scatter in front of his captive and watching closer still for any chance of a reaction across her tight olive face.

"I insist that you take a look through that little lot. It's quite relevant to both our species, I do promise you."

She kept her hands on her lap, did not dare to move and instead kept her gaze held across the table. She raised a brow though.

"Those are human documents."

His smile lit up.

"You _do_ have an accent."

She fell silent and dropped her brow. He nudged the papers closer to her.

"I know that. I need you to explain what's inside for me."

She dared to glance down at the folder cover, which supported a heavy black inked title atop an unmarked beige cover. There was one word on it, and that was, '_Federation'_.

"My work over the last seven years has involved neither the doings of my Government nor the humans' Government. I was simply a Science Officer aboard a human Starship. What new plans either of these Governments have been working on will not have concerned me in any way, and so I have been told nothing and know nothing of this 'Federation'."

He nodded slowly, the smile muting somewhat.

"Well I did say you wouldn't talk until I gave you incentive to. No smart Vulcan is just going to give away information to a rogue Andorian when she knows she will be killed by him anyway, I understand that."

She watched him stand up and rise above her, his height and build intimidating although she did not show any signs of fear and withdrawal from him this time. He ran a hand through his dark hair and then leant on a comm. built into the corner of the desk.

"Tell Chef we're hungry now, not in an hour and let Dulac come in."

There was never a responding voice but Yulae hung up all the same as it seemed his orders had been taken.

"I wont play about too much with the suspense. Dulac is the reason why you will talk, even if it would be logical just to consider you're going to die anyway and silence is the best option for this 'Federation's' sake. No?"

Her eyes focused on the table. She brought forth one consoling thought – that there had to be a crew out there looking for the missing captives of the Phae by now. She forced herself to forget about the several fleets of captives before who had gone missing and of whom no one had ever tried to recover. As back up for that Jonathan became her second comforting hope and it surged on a little more confidence.

"You're very caring for a Vulcan."

Yulae began to pace back and forth behind her, enjoying the sensation of the flickering muscles he could feel beginning to emit from her wary body. He could not catch her gaze but enjoyed the gentle torment nonetheless.

"You have emotions just dying to show themselves. You're practically bursting at the seams. You've worked with humans for seven years, no one can blame you. You must have felt some scary emotions in that time; anger, hate, remorse… love."

She visibly tensed and her head dropped slightly. He nodded.

"Love, that's the one, isn't it? That's the one every Vulcan tries to avoids the most. Love, it makes you do dangerous irrational things. Makes you want to fight, want to protect, want to lay your own life down for someone else's. Very dangerous that. Makes you needy, makes you desire, tempts you. Leads to passion, leads to untimely mating, carrying out the most intimate of acts when it's not even time for your pon farr. Worse than hate, worse than regret, worse than pride, love will make you crazy. And you've felt it first hand, not once but twice. That makes you an extremely dangerous Vulcan, certainly more so than if you were just a universally experienced Vulcan."

Her eyes narrowed and her fists clenched. Not in anger but in sudden panic. It was the first crack she dared to show Yulae and he beamed when he saw it.

First Commander Tucker, now the Captain. You are in a bit of a mess my dear."

She stood up quickly, suddenly as a tempered heat ran through her body, daring to stand directly before Yulae's brunt figure with her chin raise high as she pierced into his eyes with her own.

"They know nothing as I know nothing. It would be unwise and a waste of time to harm them over these documents."

His laughter was like a smiling growl. He towered over her lithe but slight figure with utter dominance.

"Are you making threats Vulcan? Because that's just as unwise."

She was clearly eager to retaliate with a bold, reckless tongue but they were unwittingly interrupted.

"Both dinner and Dulac are ready Sir."

He suddenly turned away with an eager smile to the door and the panel at the side of it. With hunger that both reflected his stomach and him impatience he opened it up and let the said items in. Dinner was Andorian cattle and ale. Dulac was a Klingon.

T'Pol felt a tremor in her heartbeat as the flow of her blood seemed to seize and then move on again, creeping by slowly in fear. She had the peculiar sensation of hairs rising along the back of her neck and goose pimples shooting down her arms. She felt her eyes betray her new apprehension and cursed at the lack of self-control. All because in the Klingon's eyes was the same eager insanity that dwelled in Yulae's crimson glare.

"Now we eat."

Again it was insisted upon that T'Pol sit, with her two companions across from her and a generous plateful of rare cooked meat and a tall glass of ale accompanying the barbaric meal before her. She felt her stomach curl and avoided at all costs to look at the sight laid in front of her by a tall and timid chef who followed in on the hulking wake of the Klingon. He served them quickly, clearly willing to leave them alone together just as quick.

Yulae sighed a breath of contentment. Enjoying the aromas that fed his nostrils he first savored the taste of ale across his tongue before again addressing T'Pol. At his side he let the Klingon eat ahead with surprising manner and restraint about it. It was an almost impossible and impressive sight, but T'Pol did indeed witness a Klingon using a fork. A bizarre oxymoron, she noted – Klingon's and manners.

"Now, Vulcan, let me play enlightenment on you, as I promised. I know it's wise to die nobly and hold the information to yourself. I know it's logical to suffer torment over allowing privileged information to spill into rogue Andorian intelligence. And I know despite your rebel against your own people, you would not betray two Governments when death is an inevitable outcome. But I also know how to make things complicated."

He took another drink and insisted with a nod that she eat up. She ignored the prompt.

"Like I said, love is a dangerous thing, as we both know. It makes you do irrational things, such as sacrifice. Sacrifice of anything from your own life to classified information, information that I need."

Yulae leant forward, his smile beginning to fade and his true natural expression beginning to crack through as his words became low and stressed. The Klingon was watching them but kept his mouth prioritized with food, until Yulae addressed him.

"Tell her who you are Dulac."

It was the command he had been waiting for as he put down his glass and swallowed his food almost un-chewed. His chest swelled and his eyes focused sharply on the Vulcan across from him as he spoke in a deep, powerful rumble.

"I am Dulac, son of Thernason, heir to the Bird of Prey K'nos, and brother," here was were he let rage and upset leak into his tone, "to Duras."

T'Pol stiffened, every nervy muscle forcing her to sit up straighter in attention and her eyes forcing her to look stunned.

"Duras?"

The Klingon nodded and turned to Yulae who was giving him the silence to carry on.

"My brother who was _disgraced_ by that walking filth that you call Captain Archer. Disgraced not once but _twice_, in front of his own father and brother. And then he was slaughtered trying no less than to _regain_ the status your Captain had stripped him of, the status and respect he used to receive amongst his superiors. Something _you_ would never understand."

There was no sparing of spite in each word that was spat across the table and into T'Pol's food. She at least gave him the honor of looking him in the eye as the situation began to fall into place and reveal its horrendous nature.

"You are going to blackmail me?"

She was talking now to Yulae who smiled without the spark in his eyes.

"Would you talk unless I gave you an incentive to? Doubtfully. The bounty over Archer's head was not the same one over yours, as Shran may have thought. Dulac has been my ally for many years now, trading his technology for the information I have on your Captain. However, he will not take the situation as far as to a kill him anymore if I am to receive some information from you. It is an entirely fair deal I believe. Archer would be dead by now without the restraint I hold on Dulac here."

The Klingon seemed to snort slightly into his ale, obviously not keen on being labeled as some sort of pet to the Andorians. Yulae ignored him.

"Do we have a deal then?"

T'Pol turned her eyes away. "I know nothing, I have already told you."

"_Liar_!"

The table shook as Yulae suddenly shot to his feet and pounded the table with a heavy fist. The cracks had become gaping holes and she saw now the complete severity of his madness.

"Liar like the rest of your people! Like when you boasted that you were a non-violent species that did not _murder!_ Like when you said you did not have listening posts dotted all over your world, in P'Jem even! Liars when they told me they would not kill my father! You are scum, you are as much a scum as the High Command, as the next piece of Vulcan dirt that walks along your holy planet preying and mediating and planning your wars. Not all of the galaxy's fooled you know. Us, the Klingons, the Coridans, the Salan to name but a few. The humans may be your lapdogs but you have far more enemies than you will ever have allies, I can assure you that. Now take my deal or I will have to execute a far more inventive way of getting that information."

T'Pol was unmoved by neither his speech nor his threats. However she did understand what danger the Klingon opposed on Jonathan, and bearing to think she could somehow prevent harm or even death upon him she knew she needed time to think. She needed to return to the cell.

"I will tell you nothing. Two lives are no tragic scarifies if it keeps the Federation a secrete from the rogues of the galaxy."

She feared she was far too good at this role-play act, but it served her well again. Yulae carried on his rage.

"So I have been given the opportunity to vent a little anger and frustration out on you. It will be something I look forward to."

He slammed his palm into the comm. his eyes grimacing and his mouth twisted.

"Take her out of here. I think she needs time to consider her Captain's and her own circumstance."

The door opened in an instant and a lone, heavily kitted guard walked in, taking T'Pol by the forearm and not waiting for her to even stand before he began to take her away. She gave herself no praise for the small victory she had just won and went in silence.

Yulae sat down slowly, draped in his own silence with a flat expression and contemplating eyes. He was still and angry but quiet about it as he quickly begun conjuring forth new muses and plans. He eventually turned to his Klingon partner.

"Would you mind making a call for me?"

……………

Cocking his head to one side Archer planted a finger in his ear and scratched feverishly. He frowned curiously at the quick passing of pain before straightening his neck and shaking his head slightly. As unexplained and random as it was he heeded the short headache no more and his actions went unnoticed on the bridge. He soon forgot about it.

The bridge was aptly silent. Often when there was little more to do than wait for a shift to be over with the crew would happily talk amongst themselves. Hoshi and Travis would commonly discuss the latest or upcoming movie night, or make plans to meet later in the mess hall or even each other's quarters. Malcolm would occasionally wind up reciting enthusiastic monologues about his old weaponry field training or the latest adjustments he was making to the plasma cannons. Uncannily enough though he was often interesting to listen to. Archer himself would always be more than happy to make conversation with these topics, or talk, almost boast even, about his father and his work or more than once get sidetracked with water polo. It was usually when he lost his crowd.

Unless directly spoken to T'Pol would remain silent and working. What no one figured out however was how much she listened to and even learnt from these times. Malcolm was unaware for instance that she knew he sometimes suffered from altitude sickness, which he had once lied about to participate in a hike up Mount St. Helen with a group of his colleges, later to be discovered on the truth when he threw up on every fifth step he took.

Travis did not know that she knew his favourite movie genre was, unsurprisingly, horror, and that his favourite movie to date was _The Fog_ by a movie director called John Carpenter, although he preferred the book, which was written by a celebrated author called James Herbert. In that same conversation Hoshi had unwittingly revealed to her that she often wished she had been alive during an actor, Pierce Brosnan's, own lifetime and rise to fame, specifically in his reign as movie character James Bond.

Perhaps the most interesting thing she had leant about though was how much Jonathan had loved and adored his father, something she did not understand and could only wonder about.

It was only now that Archer sat up a little straighter with a quizzing look upon his face and realised that she must have been listening to them. He put his chin to his hand and frowned over this, then smiled sadly.

The new science officer behind him, the second Vulcan science officer that had been forced upon him, was silent as she had been, although in fairness no one spoke much amongst the senior crew right now, even in these tedious, eventless hours. Without him noticing Archer turned to look at him. It was not the first time in the last hour that he had done so, and the last two times he had been caught.

There was a sense of déjà vu that hung over his head, was all Archer could say at first about the Vulcan. He had dull, steady brown eyes, a paler complexion than most Vulcans but was still a distinct deep olive, had thicker lips, a bowl cut of coarse brown hair and a lithe build. He sat still and had a flawless concentration. His orders and his work were his only priority on the bridge. The silence did not bother him, nor how long time seemed to be taking to pass, although to him an hour was probably just an hour and could feel no more than that.

Archer sat up a little more and then clarity began to brighten the déjà vu. He finally had his finger on it and the truth almost made him laugh.

"Sulak, could I see you in my ready room for just a moment?"

Archer stood, trying to keep a steady smile on his weary face as he became worn down with the waiting in orbit. The science officer looked up at him blankly.

"Have I done something wrong Sir?"

The entire bridge was listening with diverted eyes now.

"No, no, I'd just like to see if we could get to know each other a little better for the time being."

"I believe we already know all of what is necessary to know about each other."

Archer pleaded him a smile. "Please, I just want to talk with you for five minutes. You've done more than enough work for now and I wont interrupt you again, I promise."

The Vulcan finally reluctantly nodded and stood, following Archer out to his ready room. Three wildly curiously glances were exchanged between three itching expressions accompanied by three senses of déjà vu as they made their exits.

Despite the bridge's generous extension on Columbia, Archer's ready room was more or less its same cozy but apt size. He had only been in it once yet so far but was finding it awkward to settle in. He was finding it difficult in general to accept the new ship. For now he put it down to the mission he had on his head to carry out. In reality and harsh truth he knew he was missing home – Enterprise.

His science officer seemed just as uncomfortable to be aboard the human Starship. His nose twitched and curled in obvious distaste to the smell of human in such close quarters and his stance was unsure as he stood before his new Captain for the first time alone. His brown gaze hovered unsteadily just out of reach of eye contact with Archer and he offered no spoken word to him at first. He remained silent and waited for the real reason as to why he was called here.

"Please, sit."

Archer moved to the porthole window, glad to see that although his ship had changed, the view, obviously, had not.

Looking behind him at a stiff blue leather chair the Vulcan scientist named Sulak slowly and warily sat as was insisted. He peered back up at Archer and continued to wait.

"I don't suppose you understand the concept of coincidence, or even irony, do you Sulak?"

"I have heard of such human-like terms, yes, and their concepts are understandable in some cases. Why do you ask?"

Archer shrugged and laughed slightly, shaking his head as he looked upon the officer with genuine amusement.

"I just think it's ironic I suppose that the second Vulcan science officer I get forced on to my crew is none other than the brother of the first one that was forced on to my crew."

That steady brown gaze suddenly sharpened and Archer watched as he hit a nerve in a Vulcan, something he had only rarely ever managed with T'Pol before.

"That information was meant as classified."

Archer shook his head. "Sulak, there may be many differences between our people, but biology is biology and the same general rules apply to almost very species – siblings look alike."

Sulak's plain brown gaze suddenly disappeared from under his hazel grip.

"I do not recognized her as my sister anymore, nor is she recognized within the rest of my family as one of our bloodline."

Archer's gaze darkened. He fought off every temptation to begin fighting T'Pol's family feud for her and very nearly lost.

"And is that the view of both your parents or just your father?"

The Vulcan's eyes dropped lower.

"Sir if you have no other questions that concern my duties then may I please be allowed to return to my post?"

The Captain was not amused. He was clearly ready with a sharp comeback when Hoshi's urgent voice spilled through the comm.

"Sir I suggest you return to the bridge immediately. I have an urgent hail waiting for you."

Archer did not give Sulak a second more consideration as he shot through the room and threw open the door that led directly on to the bridge. Only one horrific sight dominated his vision when he got there.

"Captain Archer," the Klingon launched into an audacious introduction before he was even addressed by Archer, "I am Dulac, son of Thernason, heir to the Bird of Prey K'nos, and brother to the deceased Duras, a Klingon you knew very well I understand, when he was alive."

His blank gaze soon turned to silent dismay as Archer's mind raced ahead of itself, remembering.

Dulac – the Klingon he had killed five years ago, the one who's Bird of Prey he had destroyed moments before he entered into the Expanse, who he had escaped custody from and learnt to have a distinct disliking of the race from. Who he had learned the hard way from what a Klingon's pride could do, and who gave him an idea now of what his brother now wanted from him.

"I also understand we have something of yours that you would like back."

Archer chilled. He had been warned by Soval, and it would have been best if he had been listening more than scolding, but what was done was done, that the Andorains would not have first hand resources to invent and construct as sophisticated equipment as a cloaking devise that rendered a ship utterly invisible to technology. The recourses had to be second hand, the Ambassador had insisted, and the second hand would most likely have been leant by the Klingons.

"We?"

It was time for Archer to suddenly awaken himself and step up again as the notorious Captain he was, draw forth his seven years of hardcore experience and begin to win this abrupt war. The Klingon smiled crudely.

"I am not here to humour you Archer, you can figure that one for yourself."

It was unlikely a Klingon would bluff about a situation such as this, so Archer did not dare to put a questioning doubt forward, instead prompting the warrior to continue on with a slow nod and a frown.

"The Phae's prisoners are all dead, somewhere out in space. If you're lucky one may pay a floating visit past your window tonight." It was clear he was enjoying his own sense of humour with the light that flared viciously in his keen dirty-brown eyes. "However, of course, there is one still alive, and she will remain as so if we get full compliance to our demands."

Archer felt a quiver run through the balled fists that sat patiently at his side, waiting to strike down upon anything to create a vent for him frustrated anger on hearing about the Phae's prisoners, which again was very unlikely to be a bluff. Dulac saw he understood his words perfectly.

"And those demands are that we receive some information, information that could be the key to the war the Vulcans are teetering on against my race and others."

Finally a stump ran into Archer's understanding, settling forth a plague of confusion on him. Dulac carried on.

"So tell me now about the Federation and it could become very likely that her life will be spared, to some degree."

Mortified silence fell upon the bridge. The thoughts of the senior crew quickly ran along a single wavelength as the Klingon hung in silence waiting eagerly for an answer. They all knew that Archer knew nothing about this 'Federation', that Archer had no information to give him, that he would not be able to convince him of this truth and that they had just lost their colleague without the opening chance of even hosting a fight for her.

"I do not know of any Federation."

There was a sharp intake of breath in the air as they watched their Captain with wide eyes as he threw away any chance of a bluff to call his own, and immediately infuriated their hailer.

"Liar!"

Archer stepped forward closer to the screen with a calm gaze but hot palms.

"Now hold on a minute. I could offer you far more than just information here. Now you've led me to assume you work for Andorians, right?"

A fist fell down on the console that the Klingon sat at as his nostrils flared and his chest heaved. Archer did not give him time to raise a note through his throat though.

"Now why would Klingons be working for Andorians? To be truthful it tells me you guys are a little short of currency and options for getting some."

Hoshi felt her breath shallow, Malcolm itched to stand and Travis could hardly brave himself to look up at the Captain, feeling he was just as well murdering his own First Officer. True enough the fury in the Klingon seemed to beginning itself on a steady climax to outrage. Archer carried on, slowly edging towards Hoshi's console now.

"We have more than enough of what you Klingons would find valuable to easily cut you another deal. Say ten thousand?"

The Klingon now stood, the murky whites of his eyes showing the rising level of his fury.

"You will follow my demands and my word and be silent unless you have something to say that I want to hear!"

Finally Archer arrived at Hoshi's station. She looked up and him, and he down at her. His look told it all along with where he rested his palm. Seven years between a Captain and an Ensign meant they learned to communicate perfectly, even in silence.

"Don't tell me you're not tempted, em… Dulac, did you say your name was?"

As he watched the Klingon's nerves twist tightly he walked in front of Hoshi, blocking any view of her working hands. Immediately she began to do as she was ordered.

"Death will not come quickly to your First Officer Archer, I hope you understand that. Nor will it for you."

It was as he spat Jonathan's second name that the image and sound across the screen began to falter. A few seconds later Dulac's own side of the transmission began to flicker with static and failure.

"Dulac, I think we're losing you. Dulac?"

Seconds later still his infuriated face was gone and the stars reigned supreme in their sights once again.

Archer turned to his bridge crew with a gaze scorned.

"He is not joking around. The Phae's passengers will have all been killed and T'Pol is only alive for insurance. She will be tortured and because I know she won't talk she will eventually be killed if we don't find her first. So Sulak, I want her found, Malcolm I want a security team ready to dispatch as soon as we have them in our sights and Travis I want us at Warp Six in ten minutes. Let Commander Tucker know."

Without pardoning his absence Archer marched over to the door of his ready room.

"You have the bridge for now Lieutenant."

He stood, uttered a respectful "Eye Sir," and then moved to the chair in the middle of the bridge. Archer disappeared into his room.

For a while silence ruled and he stood utterly still in the middle of the small cold room, his eyes fixed on nothing but the porthole ahead of him. Then he threw his fist into the steel wall and cried out to hell itself.


	14. Painful Clarity

_A.N_

-_cringes_- You're just going to have to bear with me on this chapter, it's like one big boring link into the action. Well I didn't like it anyway, but I'm not exactly up to rewriting the whole damn thing.

Still don't think I have to up the rating, but let me know if I should.

And one last note – _argh!_ January. Now surely I'm not the only one here who thinks that's a fair bit away yet, but that's when they're airing, at the _earliest_, season three over here in Scotland! And you guy get to see the premier of season four in October! Now tell me where the justice is in that.

Huffily onto the chapter now I think.

……………__

They dove out of his way as he passed. Some moved to talk to him but others quickly stopped them from committing such an insane act. For now he was unapproachable and it was very likely the Vulcans would be informing their Ambassador of this as he went.

Archer found his emotional frame of mind in as much a state as his body had once been when he had unwittingly gotten himself trapped in the basement of a bar on an alien planet for a week with his vital signs cloaked by a strange defence shield and his communicator broken by his fall down the stairs. And just as then, now he felt himself haplessly trapped.

His quarters were now actually a hallway down from the bridge, for some unknown design reason, and so with the ship in Warp and still no sign of the enemy for yet another hour he decided with a fierce nod that he would retreat into his room to have just half an hour to himself to think in solitude. He should have known before he had even stepped off the bridge that this would be impossible.

The corridors were lined with blue and red doors, blue signalling a single person dorm, the whites a double. They were even numbered at the sides. Archer thought with spite that they had probably spent more time designing the new interior quips that the actual technology (which was far from the truth but his mood was bitter and it reflected in his thoughts).

He made his way to the blue door that acted as a beacon at the very end of the bridge corridor for his room, sitting just were the junction was to turn off either to a turbo lift or more quarters on the right. Apart from Porthos his room was unpacked, and he knew subconsciously he was refusing to unpack and settle on this ship. What T'Pol would say about this he did not know, but he so desperately wished he could hear her chiding words of logic over the matter now.

Working on a new ship was far from what he had expected. He had been somewhat guiltily exited about travelling on Columbia, just around Jupiter, even without T'Pol there with them. He had been looking forward to experiencing the new technology in action, and watching another Starfleet Captain take his seat on the bridge. But now he knew the horrible truth: that his loyalties bound him to Enterprise, and would until his dying day.

His hand rose miserably to the panel lock as he thought over this. A Crewman passed behind him, his pace seeming to quicken as he walked past his Captain and towards the turbo lift. On Enterprise he would have said a warm 'hello' to Crewman Mandors, as he would to any crewmember passing by, but now he just let him go in silence.

There was a scarping noise coming from inside. It was then that Archer realised the time and also realised he had abandoned the duty of feeding his dog, something he should have done half an hour ago. Porthos was often not a patient dog when it came to his food and this reckless forgetfulness brought forth upon the Captain a drowning wave of guilt. He opened the door quickly.

"Sorry boy, I—"

The beagle was gone. As the door rose to open the old but still agile little body of Porthos darted past Archer's ankles like a wild dog unleashed and made a galloping dash down the corridor, barking madly as he ran through the row of quarters mainly belonging to the senior and upper crew. He stopped at one blue door and carried on his mad howling with more purpose now as he begged for the door to be opened. His voice did not go unnoticed. Dorms began to open up and crewmembers dared to feed their curiosity by filling their eyes with the source of the sound and the angry Captain who stood behind him.

"Porthos! Get away from there, that's Hoshi's quarters and she's not in."

He grabbed him around his chubby little belly when he did not listen and forced the dog's chocolaty brown eyes to look at his own dark, overcast frown. Porthos twisted his neck and continued on barking.

Needless to say the bridge too was alerted to the abrupt racket and Travis and Hoshi, after warily sticking their heads out into the air of the outside corridor, walked down the hallway that led to the rows of quarters. Hoshi immediately ran to her door and there was a sudden knowing look in Travis's eyes. Porthos calmed as the linguist stepped in front of him.

"Sorry Sir, I meant to ask you this earlier, but…" she paused, aware of the small crowd around them, aware of her Captain's mood and aware of the abstractness of her upcoming question, "Is Porthos good with other dogs?"

Archer's hazel scowl flattened as the question stumped him into confusion. He looked down at his beloved pet then back at his linguist then at the door that hid the mysterious source behind the prompt for Porthos's unexplained behaviour.

"He wont attack another one, if that's what you mean."

Relief seemed to flood Hoshi as her deep, wonderfully brown-orbed eyes turned to the panel lock where she placed in the code and opened her dorm up. Clarity rushed in quickly and the confusion was soon sorted.

A small bundle of wavy black fur trotted out on four short legs calmly, pawing at Hoshi's ankle before she reached down and took the animal around the waist. Porthos looked on eagerly, his tail thundering back and forth and Archer laid his eyes on a jet-black English Cocker Spaniel. It pointed its nose in interest at the Captain but ignored the other dog.

"I would have introduced you earlier but… you were preoccupied."

Archer blinked and the dog's pink tongue began to loll, the mouth stretching in a smile-like manner as it did with Porthos when he panted.

"The Admiral let me bring her aboard Sir. Her name's Angel, she's about four years old and she's an English Cocker Spaniel, but apart from that the sanctuary didn't really know anything else about her, just that she'd been left to roam the San Francisco streets. I went with Travis and picked her out a couple of days ago at some kennels. I don't _think_ she bites other dogs and she's been really friendly to other people so far."

Archer knew dogs. It was very unlikely that this lump, which was quickly beginning to close its eyes in Hoshi's warm arms, was much capable of an attack or any general acts of violence on another creature. If anything she seemed just that bit lazier than Porthos.

"I suppose it would be pointless now to ask if she can stay?"

Archer sighed but he was fighting off an affectionate smile and Hoshi could just about see it. She knew she was lucky that Archer was an utter dog man, but she also found it hard to see how he or anybody else could not fall for her dog in some way.

"It's probably about time Porthos got himself a companion anyway. He needs more and more of a reason to get out of his bed every day, don't you boy?"

He scratched fondly under the white chin of his dog and Porthos lapped up the attention. Around them Archer could see others itching to stroke and coo over the dogs, he even saw a rare smile pass through the wary eyes of some of them. It seemed he had just found the boost for staff moral.

Putting Porthos down he nodded for Hoshi to do the same with Angel and they watched as the dogs said hello to each other as dogs did and then, instantly one loosing interest of the other, trot into the crowd to look for gentle hands to stroke them and perhaps even offer them food.

"Would you mind Ensign, if this willing group took our dogs down to the lounge on C-Deck for a little R&R?"

It took seconds for her to cotton on and she allowed herself a smile.

"Of course not, just as long as I get mines back in one piece, or just back even."

With the fondness in their eyes, and the arguments that were bound to erupt on who got custody and for how long, Archer laughed at her half warning and shook his head.

"Don't count on it Hoshi."

He then nodded to the small crowd of only four; Crewmembers Kelly Warren, Matthew Rise and Jackson Young, along with Ensign Jack Pocke, four of his crew if he remembered correctly who had been entirely willing to follow him into the Expanse, and now in his mission. He smiled proudly at them, suddenly feeling the warm compassion that he often felt when knowing in all modesty that he was an inspiring Captain with an eager crew. Despite having a new ship he had most of his old, loyal crew and he then felt again a surge of guilt as he realised he had lost sight of this.

"But yes, it would be nice if you brought them back, and relatively close to the condition they're in now. Just no cheese for Porthos, trust me. Crew dismissed."

Their smiles grew to beams and the dogs' tails swung madly as they realised they were not being confined back to their quarters but were instead being given the freedom to walk with the other humans around the ship. They quickly forgot their doting owners and left with the new crowd.

Behind them Travis watched on both curiously and doubtingly.

"That was an interesting tact Sir, but are you sure it was that wise?"

Archer sighed but managed to keep hold of his smile. "No, but be careful Travis, you're beginning to sound like a substitute for my Sub Commander and I already told Soval I don't want a new one."

As they watched the crowd beckon and coax the dogs on into the turbo lift, not something they needed much encouragement to do anyway, Archer wondered just exactly what T'Pol would have to say. He got the impression of great scepticism rising in her gaze, and great tones of doubt marring her voice, which perhaps would try desperately to sound 'open minded'.

He wondered, then pained then fought off the realism that was beginning to sink in about just how simply dire her situation and his Catch-22 were. He didn't want to do it, but he forced himself to wonder what it would mean to him if he never saw her again. Quite simply it meant devastation and utter loss.

……………

Unsure of how she did it, she did it anyway. Sitting in the warmth of a condemned cell on a ship hunting down her Captain, mostly likely, despite their promises, to kill him as well, as Andorian's passed by the small barred window only to poke their blue faces in and sneer and cuss, she sat cross legged on the bench with her hands perched comfortably on her lap and meditated. The hours went by far faster than they did in a broken sleep or when sitting calculating impossible equations or musing over what at all to do next. Her mind was not at a complete empty clarity as it should have been in such a deep meditate, one that bordered on a temporary comma, but it brought her what she desperately needed – emotionless calm.

As she sat strangely still with a strict straight back and legs curled far into themselves she felt a liquid tranquillity like cool space air purged her of her recent bouts with frustration and panic. Her skin was no longer wracked with goose pimples and her muscles sat easy in her carefully posed body. She could feel the deep breathes escaping slowly from her lungs again, no longer in a rush to exhale. Her fingers did not tremble and her lips did not quaver. The epicentre of her serene, logical Vulcan nature had returned once again in her spirit. As was to be expected though, it would not last.

For the fifth time in approximately twenty minutes a set of heavy moving footsteps walked down through the blue corridor that lay just beyond the steel barrier that kept her freedom robbed from her. Again she took no heed of them and kept her eyes closed, her lids flickering slightly to show that she was not quite asleep, only in deep mediation.

It angered the Andorians who passed to discover that verbal cursing and banging against the door with their weapons would not disturb her, but merely make her shift slightly to relieve sleeping muscles. She expected this next set of footsteps to do no less, stop and try an attempt at teasing the prisoner. Indeed he did stop, but he did not speak.

T'Pol's concentration began to slip and she knew her mind was more intent on focusing now on the present and the Andorian she could sense at the door than finding and holding on to a centre of calm. She felt tempted to open her eyes but kept them firmly shut.

The familiar sound of the whirling mechanics on the door's hinges echoed throughout the cell and she could feel the very slight vibrations they sent through the walls as her body fell completely still. A few seconds later a shuffling of feet scuffed the floor and the door began to close slowly over again. Finally she opened her intense brown eyes and looked sharply upon an Andorian guard bearing a plate of food in one hand that she only just now caught the putrid meaty scent of.

"I cannot be expected to eat that."

Her words were clear and biting and it seemed to surprise and annoy the guard that a prisoner in such a position as she was in would speak to him in such a tone, especially considering it was his hip the rifle sat on. Unfortunately T'Pol wad chancing herself and had decided to push her captors.

"Well my orders are to stand here until you have."

He placed the chipped plate on the bench at her side and then stood back a pace, crossing his arms over to prove his word as he stood there patiently.

"Go on, all of it."

She looked up again at him with a cocked brow, as if to say she did not entirely appreciate being spoken to like a child who refused to finish his last morsels of a meal.

"My digestive system is not entirely capable of handling meat substances. It is highly unlikely that this… meal," she looked with highlighted distaste at the serving of thick, fatty red meat then turned her nose away to it again, "would serve its purpose at all."

The guard sneered. "And the Captain said you were a smart one who we were to watch out for. This meal is not for the purpose of _feeding_ you, Vulcan, it's meant as a prompt to get you to talk, to show you this is just the 'tip of the iceberg' if you don't start spreading to the boss the information he wants to hear."

Her distasteful but calm look was beginning to find direction at the guard now, and not just at the food. So she closed her eyes before she dared to say something reckless and pointless and tried to slip back into a state of meditation. This did not impress her companion.

"Eat it now before I'm forced to do something I won't regret."

T'Pol continued to forces her mind to dwell on past memories of distant times aboard the Enterprise, of calmer days serving there, specifically of times where she had taught others of the crew to mediate. She remembered one time with Jonathan—

The nose of a rifle poked carelessly into her shoulder, hurting the sensitive skin under her beige jumpsuit.

"Oh no, no mediating allowed in here, I can assure you of that."

Again her eyes opened slowly and without tilting her head up she looked up at him, the serene brown irises rolling gradually to the top of her sockets. It gave her the look of menace and irritation. Despite the poisoning glare and tremble in her lips she said nothing and once more closed her eyes over. She knew she was 'pushing her luck', as Jonathan had said to her once when she had defined his orders to obey her own ethics, but she did not know how far she had pushed until he showed her.

The gun was swung back and then rushed forward again for the hard metal side to collide with the side of her face. Shock defying her balance she found herself flattened along the bench as a searing bruise of pain shot through her jaw line and soft left cheek. Bursts of white light shrouded her vision as she blinked rapidly and felt the palms of her hands press down hard, trembling into the warm steel of the bench as she tried to leaver herself back up.

Her tattered ear tips twitched and she heard the tearing of the air as the gun was brought back again, further this time. It was the guard's one mistake, his yearn to throw a harder hit with the success of the last one, and she was given enough time now to react as he volleyed his weapon forward. She threw herself against the wall and the nose of the gun swept only just past her forehead. She finally opened her eyes properly and let vision flood her mind again.

He had lost his bearings slightly with the surprise that he had missed her and with the weight of the gun forcing him to twist on his heels he then lost his balance and fell. It was all she needed and she was thankful for it as she quickly stood up despite the disorientation and moved behind him, just as he twisted to follow her abrupt movements. Her thumb and first two fingers clamped down on the part of the shoulder closest to the base of his blue neck. She pinched perhaps a little too hard but it was hardly a concern of hers as she watched him fall quietly defeated to the floor.

She allowed herself no time for praise. Her head still spun and she still blinked fiercely, trying hard to gain back fractions more of her sparking sight. In mere minutes a deep green bruise began to creep along her jaw line and up just below her eye. She ignored the sensational pain and stepped over to the door.

Realisation struck then that there was no lock on the inside. No panel and no comm. The guard didn't even seem to have a set of keys on him, just his weapon and that meal. This conjured only one conclusion; that in what could be mere minutes assistance would be up to allow him back out of the condemning prison.

She looked back at the heap on the floor. His gun had scattered to a corner. She ducked over and grabbed it. A small plasma rifle; it was nothing elaborate for such an elaborate set-up. She remembered the archaic human saying that Phlox had once told her after Hoshi had once told him – 'beggars could not be choosers'. She understood it better now, now that it had been put in unfortunate context. The gun was easy to handle though, and surely easy to fire.

She tried to out way the bad with the good, to give her some sense of hope, a feeling that had repeatedly kept dying as the caper went on. It barely worked and she held the gun pessimistically, or realistically, as Malcolm would say, loosely in her left hand.

It was then she realised it. Something so simple that had escaped her attention amidst the horror of her situation. Her ring was gone, along with the photographs.

She sat back down on the bench. She should have known the second she laid sights on those crazed crimson eyes that the sentimental items would be stolen from her. However, it left her feeling no less… empty.

Footsteps again. She felt her blood freeze over and her stomach churn as it had been already with the dead scent of the uncooked meat. It was that strange sick sensation she was feeling again and she eventually recognised it as heavy apprehension.

Tall lanky shadows began to bounce across the blue wall just beyond the door, antennae flickering and guns waving. There were three of them, perhaps a forth as the reflections walked forward in one indistinguishable grey clump. As the shadows walked away from her line of sight she knew they were a meagre few strides away now.

She was right, and when four of them peered into the cell seconds later they were far from impressed by the mess she had made.

She stood up quickly and aimed the gun through the barred window, ignoring that her pounding head begged her to sit back down again.

"You can inform your boss that if he wishes to learn anything in this week then he will have to treat his Vulcan prisoner somewhat civilly."

The Andorians still gazed on stumped at their fallen brethren. That bewilderment however soon changed to anger and clear-cut outrage.

"How _dare_ you, especially in your position!"

The door began to unlock as one spoke up.

"There is no negotiation here. If you do not tell his what he wants to know then he will just find another hapless victim to torture it out of."

They pushed their way in before the door was even finished opening.

"And you'll learn some respect before your time is up."

She felt a quiver shoot down her spine but she firmly held her ground before the bench, her gun still aimed.

"Put it down and we wont tear you apart right now."

The last had spoken and it was clear none of them had any intention of keeping to that promise.

She pulled the trigger and was knocked back by the force of the fire, her aim shooting into the roof and doing no more harm than showing the four with harmless orange sparks. A few inches to the left and she would have hit the bar of light, perhaps being able to cause some amount of injury through that.

"Klingon hand-pistols," one laughed triumphantly as T'Pol silently cursed the pain in her wrist, "they may make them small, but there is never anything subtle about Klingon weaponry."

Hardly deterred she lifted her steady left arm again. Just as quickly thereafter the gun was shot out from her hold and a light scorch mark curled across the top of her pale hand.

"It takes years to master the yielding of one, but well worth that labour. Now stand back up."

Her part of the fight now over she obeyed grudgingly, remaining ever silent. For behaving though she got nothing. For defending herself against a near rampant guard she got four more near-rampant guards.

They began with the face and worked their way down.

……………

Archer rubbed his greying temples. It was like a fleeting migraine bouncing across the circumference of his skull. But just as quickly as it came it went again and he slowly released his clamped massaging fingers from the sides of his face.

Now almost a full twenty-four hours after leaving space dock he sat slumped in his chair and felt cramp at the base of his back beginning to settle in. He was with the successors of his senior crew now, Ensign Park on the comm., Lieutenant Keating at weaponry and EnsignMontgomery at the helm. He had not moved from his own position since taking an hour out in his quarters to think long and hard no more than twenty-two hours ago. He was numb with thought.

The Phae's crew were dead. He estimated at least twenty had to have been aboard. One was still alive for insurance. It had to be T'Pol, her bounty had to still have held with his even after all these years.

Even for Hoshi it would be a challenge to negotiate. Even with Sulak it would be hard to track them, and even with he as Captain it would be difficult to pull through triumphant. There was still that one reason why he would though – the fuel that ignited his edge, his missing First Officer, the Vulcan he believed he loved.

Such realisation of this, and realisation above that that he had now loved and lost was what rendered him numb. It wasn't the tension of waiting for an invisible enemy, or imagining the prisoners now dead simply because they did not slip in line with the laws of the Vulcans, it was that he was so narrow minded and blind before that he hadn't realise his own feelings until the one who had prompted them in him had been taken away.

His face was hot when he dragged his palms down it. He imagined he looked pale with hostile eyes so he did not bother removing the deep frown which had settle across his white brow. He kept it there to scowled himself as his heart thundered on with irreversible repent.

The bridge door slid open but the Captain did not turn, his flipping thoughts making his deaf. Then there was a Southern accent at his ear.

"Sir, as your First Officer ah sincerely advise you take a break before you fuse your ass to that seat."

With bleary eyes he suddenly turned, half expecting it to be T'Pol at his back, chiding him in her own subtle way. Of course though it was Trip and he seemed to sag with disappointment, even though he smiled weakly.

"It's not like I'm exhausting myself with work up here Trip."

The Southern sympathised with him by offering up a golden smile

"No, just worry. It's meant to be one in the mornin', an' you've sat from the Alpha shift through to the Epsilon, and in a few hours it'll be time for the Alpha shift again. Either let me sit in the Big Chair for a shift, or come down with me to the mess hall to talk about things, 'cause ah sure as hell know T'Pol wouldn't let y' stay up here like this."

Archer's eyes suddenly geared with anger. Trip saw he had hit a nerve. Like taking the Lord's name in vain in front of a priest simply to emphasise a point, Archer was not impressed with Trip's use of bait to arouse him from his guilt. Just as quickly though the adrenalin that shot though Archer's cold blood defused again and he felt the tension flicker from his eyes.

"Sorry…"

Trip shook his head, smiling cautiously again. He was not a grudge-bearer.

"Y' comin' then?"

Archer looked around at his bridge staff, all content in their work or more specifically talking amongst themselves through the eerily quiet hum of Columbia in steady Warp Four. Without needing to remind them he knew they would call him if just one flicker of the enemy appeared before of them in some form or another.

"Since you put it that way Commander, I suppose I'll have to."

……………

Trip was exactly the person Archer needed to talk to. He needed to know what it was like to love a Vulcan, and he needed to know if he was going insane over her or if Trip too had experienced this most complex emotional turmoil with her.

It was hardly easy to come forward with the questions that tore at his confused curiosity though. He looked on at the Engineer with a tilted glance, hoping his expression would prompt Trip to ask him what was wrong. There was where the ideal staring point lay.

"So what's on your mind, apart from the obvious?"

He almost kissed him, but in the end refrained.

"I honestly don't know Trip. I'm beginning to wonder now though if inviting T'Pol to stay at my apartment for a few days was the best idea of my life, or the stupidest move in history."

Trip leaned back with his beer. So it wasn't exactly the Andorians and the Klingons he wanted to talk about but he let him continue despite the slight randomness of the conversation. It made sense anyway.

"Four years ago, when I found out… you two…"

Trip knew exactly what about four years ago he was trying to get at. Four years ago was when he had found himself half way across the mess hall because it had finally leaked out to the Captain what had happened between he and T'Pol not a year before that.

"I was more out of line than I could ever have comprehended back then Trip. And now I understand, I think, how hard it must have been for you when she… when she—"

Trip nodded, cutting Archer short with a sad, withering smile. "Told me she wasn't interested in anymore. It's not easy to get a Vulcan to love you back Jon, even when you'd tear your own heart out just to make her feel the same way you do. And by Gawd was she scared by love. But she's not anymore, and ah might have helped her understand a little how the feelin' works, but you're the accelerant now, not me. Ah gotta get off the stage and let you have the moment, 'cause it's not me she wants anymore, an' with you, this time, the feelin's are mutual."

How quickly Trip could shave off his forward, brutally honest and straightforward nature to one of utter understanding and compassion for others was at times unbelievable and frightening. More often than that though it was welcomed by desperate minds and appreciated to the fullest.

This night was so like that one mere hours before they had entered the Expanse. Sitting in the mess hall in the middle of the night, a bottle of bourbon between them and sombre brown shadows bathing them. But despite the drab surroundings and circumstance they had had each other and a total understanding to share, a painful clarity it could be called by how pure and obvious it was.

Back then Trip had understood why Archer was letting go such a valuable member of his crew, his First Officer no less, without even a hapless fight as she went unwillingly back to her people. He could not have a distracted Sub Commander with divided loyalties in his crew; his reason was as simple as that. The year which follow alone showed she did not have this schism of allegiances anymore.

Now he had to fight with as much a show as this to get her back, and again Trip understood his reasoning. Dragging Columbia out on a mission before her time (her christening even lasting only a few hurried minutes), hastily agreeing with Soval and thus bringing aboard almost a quarter crew of Vulcans, arming themselves to the teeth; apart from the fact that it was the essential thing to do, saving lives and bringing down a growing enemy before it peaked (although it seemed now it had) it was also the thing to do because he loved her. And he hadn't directly said it yet, but he knew his best friend's feelings as well as he knew T'Pol's own. Even looking at his distant hazel gaze now Trip could see it, and it left a ripple of bittersweet envy in his soul.

"She loves ya Jon, she just doesn't realise it yet."

Archer's gaze focused and Trip offered him a gentle smile.

"But she will, when you let her know you do too."

Archer frowned feeling in the few seconds he had phased out had missed something, a crucial part of dialogue perhaps. Trip only nodded knowingly.

"So swallow that damn pride of yours and tell her when we find her, promise me that, okay?"

Archer remained silent, so Trip prompted him with a truth he had first hand experienced.

"Tell her or she'll never know it an' she'll never figure it out for herself, an' you'll be eatin' yourself from the inside out for the rest of yer natural life. You've got yourself the livin' proof right before y' that that's exactly what'll happen if y' don't."

Trip's words might have grown biting, harder to make him heed his message, but they were just as understanding as before. Finally Archer found his voice, although it was husky and almost whispered.

"And if we don't. Find her I mean."

Trip shook his head, ending the conversation for the night on a definitive note.

"You will Jon, you always do."

……………

She was cold. However it was the least of her problems. Sitting up was naturally a struggle, but she had to. Common, logical sense demanded of her hours of meditation to hone her body's healing factor, hopefully speed up the healing time of some of her less… major injuries. Cuts, bruises, her bloody nose and bitten tongue; if she closed her eyes and sat patiently enough then not long after the broken skin should start to seal, her blood clot and the bruises fade away slightly.

The larger wounds, what was broken, what had been torn apart, where she bled out most, she would have to be patient until the cavalry to arrive, instead of willing on a speedier healing factor for them.

She had last eaten at Jonathan's house, plomeek soup she remembered. It had tasted surprisingly close to as it should have, and later during the meal Jonathan had told her he had 'worked his ass off' making it whilst she packed. He had also stated, when she said beans would have sufficed, that it was 'no bother'. Remembering the details she discovered, whilst musing over such trivial things, helped ease her torn, trembling muscles and twitching eyelids.

Over the hours she had been left in this state she had desperately tried to think as well as mediate. She was trying to conjure up believable lies and fables to tell Yulae about this 'Federation'. Taking an educated guess (something she grudgingly did) she thought perhaps it could be some sort of weapon, thus the reason for why Yulae was so desperate about receiving the details on the cryptic files. It was understandable to think he would think any mass weapon being made was meant for his people, his renegades.

However _she_ could not reason with why the humans would be constructing a super-weapon, and certainly one as high profile and secretive as this one appeared to be. She doubted it was for the Andorians, she doubted there even was a weapon. Naïve and headstrong the humans may be, but she knew they had left behind their war days a long time ago.

But it was all she had and in her head she was now constructing the details of her bluff.

She later on became aware of her shivering. She was literally clawing forth her concentration and any shields that would block the pain now, but it was an almost impossible task. She had her story, and now she could let go.

She sagged. Her eyes opened and she looked down at the ground with an empty, watery gaze. The floor had gone from clean to dirty and stained. Puddles and drops of green blood littered the place, as well as scatterings of stale, raw red meat.

She was starving. It was part of why she had remembered her last meal before now so fondly. It was part of the reason why she looked at the meat to keenly.

Suddenly she turned her eyes away and scolded herself. If she were to die before Jonathan found her then it would not be whilst she was humouring these barbaric monsters.

Again she scowled herself, this time for her Vulcan pride. Survival over pride – that was how it should be. Sadly she could not accept this and continued to ignore the scattered meal.

Her body tensed as she moved, but soon relaxed when it realised she was only trying to lie down. She eased herself onto her best side, her right-hand side, down onto the shoulder that had not been shot.

She was unsure of how they expected her to survive the week, or pull from her the information they so badly wanted. She saw they were being irrational, spending their only token far too quickly. To the best of her knowledge she was their only lead, and they were slowly killing her. Irrational it was, and for some reason this thought warmed her. They may have had technology and powerful allies, but they were still blunt and hasty and primitive.

She felt her Vulcan pride surfacing again, and this time let it be.

Twenty-two hours it had been, since she was brought aboard from the Phae. Not the best twenty-two hours of her life, and she tried but failed to think of worse times, but she would not allow pity to dwell down upon her. Her pride had already risen victorious. That was enough for one day.

She did pine for one thing though. She wanted to go home. She wanted to be back in Jonathan's apartment.

The door opened. She opened her reddened eyes and looked on hatefully. She was joined again by Andorian company – Yulae.

"T'Pol. T'Pol, T'Pol, T'Pol."

Her name in his mouth, she wanted to break every tooth in his insanely smiling jaw. She could feel her emotions surfacing, the strength of them almost frightening as if she were one of her primitive ancestors. Yulae knew this. He loved it.

As much as she yearned to, T'Pol could not bring herself to sit up. She had to watch Yulae cross the room over to her helplessly as she lay looking like a sick animal ready for the slaughter. A crude description she summoned of herself, but it was cruelly apt.

Towering above her, his nose pointing down at her with flared nostrils as she moved only her eyes to follow him, he sighed and shook his head in mock pity.

"The Vulcan Nerve Pinch. I don't want to see that again, that was a cruel trick to play on my solider. It's something we haven't quite learnt to do yet, it's not a little unfair, don't you think, when only you can perform it and we haven't a chance against it."

She said nothing. His knees gave way and suddenly his eyes were level with hers as he bent down at her side.

She flattened her palm onto the bench, willing herself to sit up but his large bony hand clamped gently but firmly around her burnt wrist and he insisted she stayed where she was. He was inches from her face, and his breath crept over her battered cheeks.

"Do you know where your Captain is right now?"

She blinked slowly and felt her throat catch, but painfully willed herself not to cough.

"He can't be anymore than, oh… half a light-year in front of us. In fact in less than one human hour he'll be aboard here _with_ us. But he's got Dulac to contend with, you will still have my full attention dear, don't you worry."

The broken ribs that touched ever so lightly on her organs were making her stomach churn and she almost smiled at the thought of vomiting in the Andorian's eerie crimson gaze. She contained herself however and swallowed back the small trickled of thick, salty saliva that crawled up her dry throat. With an empty stomach she wouldn't be able to do it anyway.

"I would not advise killing one of the most important and well known human beings on Earth. You will make yourself a more formidable enemy than even my people give them credit for."

Her voice was unnatural strong for her current state and it seemed not to impress Yulae too much, as if he saw this as a marker to showed his men had not done a good enough job with her. He put some pressure on his grasp around her burnt wrist but she hardly flickered.

"If I want your man dead, dear, then I'll have him killed. Consequences are nothing if you win a triumph and a stake of fear."

T'Pol frowned. "You will not scare his people, you will infuriate them."

Inching closer still on the toes of his feet Yulae brought his nose almost to touch his victim's, but not quite. As his blue lips curled into a smile though she could see every chip and stain on his yellowed teeth, and every fine line across the skin of his amused face. His breath was sweet and sickening, much like the air in her cell.

"T'Pol, love, I don't care."

Finally he pulled away, giving her a hearty pat on the shoulder as he rose to his full height again. She didn't wince, even though his palm did slam down on a fresh, tender bruise. Instead she sat up, ignoring the painful protest of her body and the sickly delight in Yulae's eyes.

"Hungry?"

He watched her clutch her stomach with her best hand and saw her nose continually wither at the scent of the now drying meat, which she assumed meant it was going bad.

"Well we did try to feed you."

He waved her off with a blasé flicker of his wrist as a guard standing patiently outside opened the door for him.

"Another time T'Pol, perhaps when you're ready to talk."

With that smiling remark he was gone and she was left in bitter, cold solitude once again.

Something shimmered in the orange light as she moved her weight back and forth, forcing herself to settle comfortably even though every movement echoed painfully in her stiff muscles. The silvery shimmer came from beside her, on the bench. She twisted her raw red neck to the side and looked down slowly.

Suddenly she sat up and flung her hand forward, snatching what was there greedily, like a maddened dog on discovering a bone.

The ring, the one Jonathan had bought her, sat now in the folds of her palm. Carefully she fanned her hand out again and looked down at the beloved object. It was bent and scratched as bad as she was, but it still held the general shape of a ring. She tried it on the finger she first wore it upon but a dent just where the writing was made it too small to go past the knuckle. So she slipped it on her left pinkie and there was were it sat, digging into her skin and bruising the bone, but she wore it regardless.

She noticed the photographs a few seconds later, after admiring the sight of the sentimental jewellery on her scabbed finger. Crumpled and dirtied they were nonetheless in one piece as she carefully picked them up with trembling fingers and chipped nails.

The one with herself, Trip and Jonathan made her cock her head to the side fondly. The one with herself and Jonathan made her heart leap then ache and her fingers tremble harder.

She thought she heard herself whisper his name. But it was pointless, he could not hear her and there was every chance that Yulae was bluffing about the Captain being only half a light-year away. There was every chance that he was still on Earth whilst she flew into Andorian space. Even more of a chance still that they were on Earth and Yulae's ship was off into Klingon space, or some remote, uninhabited region of space at least, hardly detectable and very unlikely to be searched by whoever was looking for her.

She leant forward in lost hope. She began to reason with her older, more controlled self who would not have despaired if she knew she was inevitably going to die. She forced herself to remember that it was illogical to feel anything over something that could not be changed; a death, an extinction, uncalled-for abusive actions on others.

She remembered the very first away mission she had had on Enterprise, paired with Commander Tucker for part of it. His eyes had pined to see what horror was happening behind that door in that alleyway on Rigal X. He knew as well as she did someone was unjustly being hurt, but she had stopped him from interfering, knowing there was little either could do about it. She had felt nothing then but he had suffered a pang of guilt.

Now she suffered anguish and fear knowing that she did not want to die, even if it was almost inevitable. She could not revert back to that detached frame of mind; she had been around humans too long to be able to do that. It even pained her that she could not, but she did not waste any more of her exhausted mind thinking about why that was. She just accepted that it was another annoying human characteristic she had unwittingly picked up on over the last seven years.

As she lay down again, photographs cuddled into her chest and her ring on tight she found sleep creeping up on her disturbingly fast. The cell and surrounding corridor were hauntingly quiet but she did not allow herself to be afraid of this, at least.

Her mind wondered in thought before drifted off to a rocky sleep. It did not wonder far. She wondered about one thing, and it was a simple thing really. She just wondered where Jonathan was right now, and if he was at all worried about where she was.

She thought she heard herself whisper his name again, but she was asleep before she could consider it.

……………

On the bridge, where his usual senior crew were present and silent around him, Archer batted the top of his right ear slightly. He thought he heard his name but the four other bodies that surrounded him were either too deep in work or too deep in thought to be concerned with calling him.

Then, suddenly, a shooting pain pierced through his temples. They all jumped as he doubled over and grabbed his greying hairs, grunting viciously as he fought off the urge to cry out at the fleeting agony. As quickly as it crippled him though it was gone again and he found himself staring sheepishly between his knees. He could feel the bated breathes around him.

"Sir?"

Malcolm was on his feet just behind the Captain as he slowly straightened himself in his chair again then looked around slightly dazed.

"Sir, are you alright?"

If the pain had lingered Archer might have snapped at him, chiding him for such a patronising question as it should have been obvious that he wasn't. But he _was_ absolutely fine, physically.

"Yeah, Malcolm, sorry… for that."

The Lieutenant was naturally not convinced.

"Sir, perhaps you should go see Phlox."

Archer was just as unconvinced of this idea and he gave his Tactical Officer a weak smile.

"Malcolm, I'm—"

He was anything but the end of that remark however as he dug his nails into his temples with yet another fleeting jab of pain, this one lasting no more than five or six seconds. Malcolm was bent down with him this time to assure proper eye contact.

"Sir, I think you should go see Phlox."

He could sense a mutual agreement pass through the other three, even Sulak, who Archer often gazed at with a half smile, taken by how striking the sibling similarity really was.

"Malcolm…" he looked upon the weather-beaten blue of the Lieutenant's eyes and sighed, dropping his unspoken argument, "You have the bridge."

……………

Sickbay stood in stark contrast to the rest of the ship. Archer often, in the seven years he had walked in and out these doors, marvelled at the eternal optimism that seemed to dwell here, dying off only in the most dire of times. Archer would have thought this was one of these most dire times. Apparently it was not.

Perhaps it was the bright blue lights, or white gleam of the place that emphasised the cheer, but it was nothing like the grey gloom of the bridge, of shadowy brood of his quarters. It was as fresh and airy as always, and accompanied by the keen chatter of two Denobulans in the background.

Phlox raised his head from the unmarked steel box he and his son were peering down excitedly at. His blue eyes lit up when he saw his Captain walk in with a slow step and unshaven chin. His worn sight hardly affected the doctor's smile as he greeted Archer with his characteristic smile.

"Captain, I was wondering when you would make an appearance down here in my, ah… humble dwellings."

Phlox's grin and upbeat tone were annoyingly infectious and Archer smiled slightly.

"You've met my son, right? Aldon."

The younger looking and smaller of the two aliens stepped forward promptly, the resemblance frightening between father and son when they simultaneously smiled. Archer nodded briefly then extended his hand. These two did not deserve his blunt mood, so he kept it at bay on his tongue.

"Yes, briefly. Good to see you again Aldon."

The young Denobulan shook his hand eagerly, almost as if it were an honour.

"I've been hoping you would come down soon Sir, to see the Captain my father speaks so highly of."

Archer laughed quietly. "Your father probably exaggerates."

A look passed between the Captain and his doctor, a look shared by old friends as they spoke silent praise about the enthusiastic youth.

"I came down to see if you had anything for migraines actually, Phlox."

With a nod from his father Aldon took off, looking quickly for the cure to the complaint in various cupboards and shelves. Phlox took the task of questioning the patient.

"Stress related headaches?"

Archer nodded slowly, liking that logic.

"Probably. We've been out here for just over a day and yet nothing. The hours gets to you after a while."

Phlox nodded sympathetically. "Of course, of course. You must be anxious for T'Pol's well-being."

A grave understatement it was to say he was just 'anxious', but Archer nodded again in agreement.

Aldon returned with the prescription in a hypospray and handed it to Phlox. Phlox refused it though and spread his hand to Archer.

"You don't mind, do you? He's quite well practiced."

Archer looked sceptically at the son then wiped the look as he saw the dismissal of hope in his young amazing blue eyes. Archer was better at being blunt than he gave himself credit for sometimes.

"No, no it's okay."

The hope was quick to return as Aldon held the hypospray properly, morphing himself into full-concentration mode. For a process that took no more than five seconds to execute it was a funny sight to behold, the slight edge of his tongue that stuck out between his lips and the sharp focus in his eyes, especially after watching Phlox do it a hundred times before without hardly looking. But Archer said nothing and gratefully thanked the young physician who looked delighted with his work.

"Congratulations son, you've just treated your first fellow crewman. Now sterilise the hypospray and could you feed the Pyrithian bats after?"

Like asking a child to eat his way through a sweet shop he complied with a beaming smile.

"He's been working to join the Interspecies Medical Exchange for many years now. I couldn't express to you how proud I am of him."

For a second Archer thought he would be given the rare sight of his doctor in tears but he only got a modest smile and then a content sigh.

"So tell me, Captain, what's really the cause of your complaint?"

Archer's brow dipped but the doctor prompted him with a nod. Archer initially shrugged.

"I don't know where they come from but it's like migraines shooting through my head, only for a few seconds at a time. There's no specific time between them, but they're getting worse, more painful."

Worry began to creep through Phlox's expression as a puzzled frown graced his forehead. He jutted his lip out in thought but could think of no suitable conclusion other than one.

"It must me the stress. When did you last sleep?"

Archer knew the answer would sound awful, and so he hesitated. Phlox prompted him once again with a nod.

"Two days ago."

Phlox smiled wryly. "Then perhaps the best cure here would be some simple bed rest Captain. In fact, I insist you give Commander Tucker command for now and at least have four hours of sleep. I can give you something to help if you'd like?"

Archer shook his head thoroughly.

"I can't sleep right now. The Andorians are on our tail, they have to be, and they could hail for me at any time. I'm not keen on the idea of telling Trip to let them know I'm in my quarters taking forty winks to pass the time."

Phlox shook his own head. "Nonsense! Commander Tucker knows how to bluff. I've seen him spin some very convincing stories to avoid extra recovery time in sickbay. If the need arises he will be more than capable of stalling for you. Now Captain, I insist you go to bed. I'm sure Sub Comm—"

"Alright, Phlox. I get the—"

"Sir!"

The comm. broke out in static and filled the bay with Hoshi's urgent and trembling voice. Archer darted to the door and opened up the link.

"Hoshi?"

"Sir, weapons have been locked on Ent— Columbia. We have an audio-only hail coming through, it's the Andorians this time Sir."

Archer looked quickly to Phlox before he fired back at Hoshi.

"I'll be there in just a second. Stall for me."

"Eye Sir."

Archer then gave Phlox a hasty pat on the shoulder. "Sorry, Phlox, but duty calls."

Phlox moved to say something but the Captain was gone in a flurry of speed through the double doors and down the long corridor. Aldon poked his head through a hanging of green drapes.

"So, you were right about the Captain and his Sub Commander."

Phlox nodded sagely. "I knew six years ago."

……………

Archer looked on furiously as he shouted back at the invisible caller.

"I want her back here _now_!"

The voice grew a smirk in its tone. "If you board with me you might well get her alive at least. I urge you to take up that offer Captain, considering I was going to return her in pieces originally."

Archer threw his fist into a wall. Then there was silence. His temper, as per usual, was doing no good. He couldn't help but flush red with anger though and around him his crew were terrifyingly silent.

"How do I know you wont just send me to the Klingons. Hand me over to Dulac to complete his revenge for his brother."

His eyes were raised to the ceiling, as if he were addressing a cruel and spiteful god.

"We need information, information your Vulcan friend will not give us. However she did let me know killing you would be a foolish idea, that I would create a mass enemy not to be underestimated. That is not what I need right now, so I will lay that down as my promise that I will not kill you."

Archer quickly ran his hands through his hair, thinking fast and smartly.

"And how to I know T'Pol is still alive."

He had never asked a more difficult question. Its answer almost crippled him.

A little white light on Hoshi's console lit up, flashing urgently. Archer saw it and nodded hesitantly. The screen before them came alive with a new image.

"Captain, I can assure you, she is still alive."

He held her up by the collar of her jumpsuit. She looked on with narrow, hateful eyes as she carried herself on her tiptoes, struggling not to be hung and strangled. He took a few shaken steps forward, his stomach knotting and his heart racing at what he saw.

She did not initially gaze upon him however, with her bruised sockets, but instead her unfocused gaze slipped behind him, to her brother who slowly stood on trembling legs.

"Sulak?"

He leant heavily on his console, but said nothing. Archer looked back at him quickly before whipping his furious expression back onto the Andorian who he was still yet to learn the name of.

He let T'Pol go and she stood quickly away from him, finally looking quietly on at Jonathan.

"So wont you come aboard with us?"

There was insanity in his happy voice and a cold shiver shot through Archer's spine in hearing it, knowing finally that this was who T'Pol's captor was, of all the Andorians.

"Okay. But if we don't both leave alive," he tried his best to ignore the horror growing in T'Pol's reddened gaze, "there'll be more than hell to pay from both our people, you understand?"

It was evident in the Andorian's wicked smile that he did, and enjoyed the prospect. Archer nodded then signalled to Hoshi to kill the link. With a disturbed nod she did.

He immediately spun on his heel and headed for the comm. to order Trip to the bridge. He was stopped by his Science Officer before though.

"Let me come with you."

Archer looked at him, truly surprised at first, but then spitefully.

"I thought you didn't recognize her as your sister anymore, your way of telling me you didn't care what happened to her."

Clarity struck the three watching as they finally cleared what was bugging them about the Vulcan officer. His plain brown gaze was undeniably identical to T'Pol's.

"I am not as heartless as it seems you have be pinned as. I would not like to see the death of T'Pol happen knowing I could have assisted in helping in some way."

Finally slight sympathy leaked into the Captain's stern gaze.

"I can't allow it, you heard his demands. Me, alone, that's all he wants. If not he'll kill whoever comes with me. I wont risk that no matter how well you think you can defend yourself. Trip."

He suddenly leaned into the comm. at the door.

"Yeah?"

"Report to the bridge. You have command of the ship."

He did not have the time for questions. He looked to Malcolm.

"Fill him in for me, and don't try to stop me, that's an order Lieutenant."

He was not up for arguments either, and was grateful for Reed's small accepting nod.

"Bring her down to Impulse Mr Mayweather, and see if you can't pin them yet Sulak on the sensors."

Both nodded.

"Hoshi…" she looked at him painfully and he smiled awkwardly, "look after the dogs."

With hardly any strength in her lips at all she smiled shakily and he opened the bridge door.

"Whether these Andorians like it or not, we're both coming back alive."


	15. The Logical Choice

_A.N_

Yes, I am my worst critic. I abandon whole concepts and ideas for stories just because I think they're awful when I'm assured that whereas they're… unusual, they're also quite good. I'm being made to hold on to one WIP in specific by RJAG even though I can't see it going anywhere good. Reading back on this even I cringe at some of the things I've done, but I'm too knee-deep in this (as well as loving it) to let it go.

As for the angst thing. Things _will_ get better. But before they can get better, they have to get worse… as this chapter will show you. Bare with me again, this chapter follows in to the category of writing known as _'when the shit hits the fan'_ I believe.

Anyway, I wont make them suffer for eternity, the Captain and the Vulcan. Something good will happen soon… I hope.

……………

_The air is sweet, fresh, laced with salt and a sunny Northward breeze on which it brings delicate accents of pine and tender vegetation. The sand, of a rich silvery-rose hue, is gently cooling after a warm day's batch of hot, lively crimson rays. The twin suns that begin to tuck in to the shimmering horizon, cast forth the last of their paling splashes of yellow across a docile azure sea. The sky is soon becoming a liquidly purple mist as powdery blue clouds become a velvety grey. _

_It is one month ago from the present day and the memories of a far better time are being played once again._

_"I do not understand why you have brought me here Captain."_

_As her voice is caught up in a playful whirlwind of sea breezes his smile to her becomes soft and amused._

_"We're not on duty right now Sub Commander. It's perfectly alright for you to call me Jonathan for the moment."_

_"Then on the same token I must remind you that my name is T'Pol and not 'Sub Commander'."_

_His laughter is carried away on the same rogue winds her question had become a part of, and then he is reminded of her query._

_"True, true. Anyway, you missed out on our last visit to Risa, and even Vulcans need their time off. I came here on my last trip with Porthos just. It's quite because most visitors go to the amusement beaches, but I like it here and I thought you might too."_

_The scepticism in her eyes, the uncertainty of being here just for 'pleasure' is more than evident in her plain brown gaze. Again he smiles in the soft light of the sinking suns as he watches the doubt in her slight expression._

_"Besides, I'd feel bad not to make some deal of your birthday."_

_The eighteenth of August. Earlier he had tried to explain to her what it meant that she was a 'Leo', her 'Star Sign' apparently. The concept however had been beyond her capability of reasoning with human illogic, or a branch of it known as 'mythology'. _

_"It is not customary to celebrate the date in which one is born amongst my people."_

_"Well it's not exactly customary for humans to meditate at night, but I've done that with you before."_

_"You asked that I help you with a bout of insomnia, I did not ask that you take me to Risa to mark the… occasion."_

_He finds cause to smile at the argument, and she turns her gaze to him, her brown quipping._

_There is a sudden commotion at her feet, one that makes her look down quickly. His pet is there, a monstrous part of a dead Risan pine tree clamped tightly in his small jaw. His stubby paws are scraping her ankle lightly, his eyes eager and wanting._

_"He wants you to throw it for him."_

_Her gaze raises graciously upwards again, the brow down but her expression questioning. _

_"He wants you to throw it so he can fetch it for you. It's a game you play with dogs sometimes. One he doesn't often get the chance at on Enterprise."_

_A muffled whine is prompting her from below to act, and long with him._

_"Go on. Just toss it along the beach. He'll love you for it, and the whole ship's being waiting for you two to hit it off for the past seven years now."_

_Their mission was finally coming to an end._

_Tentatively she bends down and the pet begins to leap from paw to paw. Quickly she retracts her hand back._

_"No, it's okay, here."_

_He bends down with her and gives the dog a rough pat on the head, which evidently from his whipping tail he loves. Then he wraps his hand around one mossy end of the stick and retrieves it from his jaw._

_Growing further excited he begins to bound back and forth on all four paws and suddenly comes crashing into her jutting knees, quickly steeling the tender balance held on the balls of her feet. She promptly tips backwards and lands on the cotton-like sand._

_"Porthos!"  
But the dog is far too entwined in his glee to take heed of the chide and, his little chest panting keenly, he begins to climb across her torso, his rough hot tongue running over her cheeks and tattered ears._

_She does perhaps the most unexpected thing next and instead of letting him take the dog off her, she runs one smooth olive palm over his velvety head. Her fingers move slowly, jerkily as she is unsure at first, wondering if she would hurt him if she stroked across other parts of his small body. But in running her hand down his neck and back his tail only crashes back and forth quicker with each gentle stroke. _

_"Wish I had my camera."_

_Jonathan comes to her side, sitting with the stick abandoned at their feet. T'Pol allows Porthos to settle his head on her lap, and the blissful beagle allows her to carry on stroking behind his ears._

_"I never could figure it out, but he always did like you."_

_Her brow rises again. "Oh?"_

_"Well I doubt you'd have noticed but he was always more obedient when you were in the room. He's more willing to give up his spot on the chair for you to sit on. Suppose he does that with Hoshi too, but she feeds him cheese."_

_He nods knowingly but she simply blinks in silence._

_"So, home in three weeks. Feels like we were only just leaving space dock yesterday."_

_She can see the pain in his expression, and the bitterness in his smile. He does not want to go 'home'. He is an explorer, a discoverer, a traveller. He wants to spend his nights watching alien sunsets such as this one, and his days amongst the stars and species of outer space. He wants his ship under his feet and his crew at his side. He wants to be Captain Jonathan Archer of the Enterprise NX-01, not Admiral Archer of Starfleet, San Francisco. He wants to be flying, not grounded, and he wants to die carrying out the job he loves in his second home, not on Earth. _

_She wants to console him, but she does not know how. She knows when she returns back she is doomed for punishment because of her renegade ways. She dares not tell him this._

_"It does seem an untimely end. But perhaps there will be a place for you on Columbia?"_

_Although his smile is still unfortunately tainted with a heart pounding sadness he smiles upon her with a warm gratefulness, almost a love that could only be expressed between two old friends._

_"T'Pol…" his head shakes and she looks upon his with curiosity, "You know what I'm going to miss?"_

_She cannot answer his question so she says a quiet 'No' and this seems to give him reason enough to laugh. _

_"That. You. I'm going to miss having you as my First Officer. I'm going to miss having you always there beside me with the rest of my senior crew, having you prove me wrong about your people on every turn. Your balance of optimism and realism, the way you put Trip in his place, his face when you do it even. Seeing the way you've changed, and how you've changed me, and the crew. I'll miss how I don't mind opening up like this to you because you assure me that it's okay to do so."_

_She does not ever remember assuring him of 'opening up', but she can only assume it is one of those accidental influences that she had not meant to execute again. She does not comment._

_"Well, happy birthday T'Pol. And lets hope it's not the last one we celebrate together."_

_Half a mile down the opulent sanded beach stands those who they are being watched by, five gushing sets of orbs willing them to sit closer, go further. Their urges are not answered but their smiles remain. _

_It is the doctor who looks most fascinated._

_"You humans and your Vulcan counterparts may have more in common than you will every realise and admit."_

_Four brows dipped down at him. The Southerner speaks up for them._

_"Ya forget doc', very few Vulcans are like T'Pol over there."_

_Phlox continues to smile through the argument._

_"Ah, but how many humans find it easy to express what you would consider the more, ah… tender of emotions?"_

_They frown again, only this time to themselves._

_"I believe our Captain is as unwilling to admit even to himself that he feels anything for our Sub Commander other than a friendship, just as any Vulcan would in the same situation. And I believe he is not alone in experiencing this illogical awkwardness."_

_The Southerner shifted uncomfortably. The linguist and Helmsman dared not to look at each other. Their Tactical Officer sits back in the warm sand, guiltlessly looking to the sky._

_"You've learnt a lot about humans then I presume over these last seven years Phlox."_

_Phlox nods eagerly to the Englishman. _

_"Indeed. But I believe also that your Vulcan crewmate has learnt a spectacular amount more, she just keeps her findings to herself."_

_The tide comes in fast on the Risa shoreline, where the suns begins drop faster from grace in the sky. Already the purple-blue sea starts to crawl up the silvery beach, lapping inches away from their toes._

_Jonathan rises stiffly and T'Pol finds his hand in front of her face. She accepts his chivalry and allows him to help her stand and together they take a few steps back from the coming water._

_Immediately Porthos fetches up his stick again and throws them an insufferable look with his watery brown gaze._

_"I think you better throw it for him."_

_The little beagle is practically on his back legs, his tail thundering away in the sand. T'Pol bends down again and carefully takes the rotting pine from his maw. She then cranks her arm back, the stump coming inches from Jonathan's nose before she wrenches it forward again and hurdles it into the crisp Risa evening._

_Jonathan gawps at her tremendous effort. Porthos runs in utter glee. The three of them catch sight then of the five others crowded around a cluster of violet rocks. In perfect synch with them the five realise at the same time they have been spotted. Uselessly, T'Pol and Jonathan's brows already quipped accusingly, the group disappears guiltily behind the boulders. Porthos begins to hunt them out however._

_Jonathan digs his hands into his trouser pockets, gazing upon T'Pol nervously all of a sudden. Donning a loose, and what Vulcans would consider 'casual' fuchsia robe with brown trousers underneath and trainer-shoes on her small feet, she looks very little like the Science Officer he is used to seeing aboard Enterprise. She looks almost… relaxed in a way that is foreign to her still rather stiff Vulcan nature. She is as herself, as is expressed through her informal attire, and Jonathan is unsure of how to look upon her now._

_"So…"_

_There is a distant barking as Porthos finds Hoshi._

_"There's this lovely boat cruise they have just after dusk here. They do a buffet aboard and there's even a vegetarian selection of food. I went on it last time I was here, alone. I think you'd enjoy it, if you'd like to join me."_

_He does not look hopeful. In the past she has never given him much reason to believe that now she will accept an invite to an event just for pleasure or amusement. _

_"Yes."_

_He does a sudden double take on her._

_"Yes, I would like to join you," she reiterates, fearing he did not hear her first one-word answer._

_He finds himself doing a triple take. She blinks confusedly at his astonished gaze._

_"Did I say something wrong?"_

_He finally catches himself with a hash inner chide as he shakes his head to T'Pol._

_"No, no not at all. I'm just, glad you want to come, that's all."_

_Finally he smiles as he relaxes somewhat. "So, shall we?"_

_He extends the crux of his elbow for her to take. She looks at it blankly. Slowly lowering it he knows it was asking for too much and smiles fondly instead._

_As they walk off the five almost rise through the air in calibration. Porthos barks eagerly, sensing their excitement and believing it to be dinnertime. The Southerner stands triumphant and also, quiet sad._

_"Ah knew it."_

_Travis shakes his head with his characteristically wide white smile._

_"We know you knew it, we just needed to see it."_

_Trip spreads his palm out, signalling to the beach and the lone couple who walk together down it._

_"Well, there ya go."_

_There was no denying it. Even if they could not see it, Jonathan and T'Pol were finally a new couple in love._

……………

There was no welcoming committee. No armed guards, no Andorians and certainly no Klingons. Just three resting shuttlepods, not including his own, himself and the walls and floor of the Cargo Bay around him.

The air was sweet and thick, too well recycled. He turned his nose up at it as he stepped out onto a warm grey floor. The heat in the bay was surprising, and grudgingly welcomed by the Captain.

Archer felt fear. He also felt rising anticipation and a dark eagerness to carry on out the one heavy steel door exit of the bay. He felt a reasonable nagging to have this over and done with as quickly and painlessly as possible. Reality mocked him.

In front of him the door opened suddenly, whirring mechanics spurring on the automated hinges as it moved inwards. No one was there though and he found he was more unnerved by the fact that this did not entirely bother him than by the fact that it appeared this ship was run by phantoms.

He carried on slowly, regardless. He had at least one rational line of thought to cling on to as he went, that kept him reasonable and level-headed to a degree – he was of no use to anyone if he ran in and got himself killed.

The corridor beyond the bay was blue, or more the beams of lights above his head were blue and cast an eerie reflection over the white walls and floor. It was meant, he guessed, to trick a façade of tranquillity and peace upon any passer-bys, but Archer felt nothing of it.

There was a deafening silence. Above all, this was what most caught his attention. He did not like it. His own breath hardly made a nervous whisper anymore as he exhaled slowly and his footsteps were mysteriously muffled along the steel floor.

The corridor before him was simple and straight. There were more steel doors on either side but no turn-offs or junctions until the end, which was quite a distance away. Here there was also a metallic tinge to the sweet air, and a sort of stale scent, one that smelled of cooked and then dried meat. It tasted no better in the nostrils than the heavy air did.

He had been standing at the beginning of the corridor for five minutes now and found it time he moved on. So he did.

Slow wary footsteps that hardly made a sound, silent bated breath; it was painfully obvious he was nervous.

Clenched fists and a heavy dark brow; it was also clear he was prepared for any fight that came his way.

Each steel door had a barred window. They offered snippets to the eye of the drab cells beyond. They were all empty as he walked by them cautiously, all but one.

He flinched slightly when he walked past the eighth door on his left. Sound was coming from within; a desperate whimper laden with tortured pain and sickening fear. Archer looked in, half expecting…

There was a Vulcan in the corner, but it was any Vulcan except T'Pol. In the shadows her filthy white skin glowed enigmatically and her limp blonde hair shimmered slightly. When Archer's silhouette fell upon her meek figure she looked up with blatantly terrified, yet stunning blue eyes. If not for her sharply tipped ears he would have thought she was human.

Seeing that he was she struggled to steady her shivering bloodied lips to talk. He stepped in before her with a soothing whisper to spare her the effort.

"I'll get you out of here, just hang on a little longer for me, okay?"

She nodded bravely and swallowed back a mouthful of warm blood. He smiled reassuringly but inside he was doubtful.

Reluctantly moving on he continued to silently trek down the putrid blue hallway. He figured the hapless Vulcan was the cause of the stale smell; she was caked with dry blood and scabs after all. But he was wrong.

He began to relate the smell to something. Strangely his mind was dragged back to the more light-hearted college years of his life. Dragged back to a time when he ran out his dorm bedroom sick after discovering three week old Chinese takeaway pork and noodles under his bed, left there after a particularly lazy night involving many takeout menus and beer. It was a time he'd rather have forgotten about but the smell in the air now was uncannily like the stench of that rotting pork, and Archer knew blood emitted from a still living body, no matter how weak, could ever smell that bad unless contaminated, so it could not be the pathetic Vulcan he had left behind.

He reached the T-junction of the corridor. The other cells had been quiet and empty. The structure of the corridor was not unlike the bridge corridor on Columbia. To his left was something akin to a turbo lift, only without the walls to structure a cylinder with. There was however a red platform on which to stand upon that could easily have taken five or six up and down the ship. Whether it went 'safely' was a question Archer did not want to contemplate.

To his right was another corridor with a grey dead-end and yet more neatly aligned cells. He opted, seeing as it seemed he was being left to do his own thing, to go right to investigate the other cells, only with little hope now of actually finding who he wanted. It was gut instinct alone that told him to take what appeared to be a wiser and more logical option, rather than test out the 'lift'.

As he moved again the smell grew. He could see the layers of carpet fluff on the dry college pork again, the sallow noodles around it already moulding. He could see his weak-stomached friend Tom gallop towards the nearest bathroom. He had hardly blamed him, felt tempted to follow him even. The real life smell of now would not let him go of this comic-horror memory. So he bared it.

It was unceasingly quiet down here too. The cells all had the same square barred windows which he continued to peer cautiously in to every couple of doors down. Again each appeared empty and dark, and again this was the case for all but one.

At the end of the branched-off corridor the eerie blue light became contaminated by the spilling glow of a lively orange hue from the window of the end cell. Archer tilted his head to the side very slightly and dipped his tall brow in a frown.

"Hello?"

He felt his voice almost drown in the heavy air. There was no answer from within the lit up cell. He would have been more surprised if he had gotten one.

"T'Pol?"

There was despair in his voice now, and a contradicting hopefulness that rose on a shaky pedestal. He knew he was being ridiculous, calling her name, but he wanted to say it anyway. He hadn't uttered that four letter word with the apostrophe in it since his outburst at Soval, (an irrational action that he still did not regret).

At only five doors down from the heavenly bask of orange Archer stopped walking for fear, namely, of what he would find, most likely the source for the putrid smell. It was continuing to grow uncomfortably stronger. He created utter silence around him as his footsteps came to a standstill. And then…

"Jonathan?"

He felt every muscle that helped him breathe seize up tight in his chest. His head spun and then, hopes rising fast, he lunged forward towards the orange cell.

He almost flattened himself on the steel lino for running so fast over so few yards, but grabbing on to the warm bars of the window he kept himself standing. The orange light brutally stung his eyes but he ignored the pain and forced the blindness away with rapid blinking lids.

Freezing cold fingers curled around the bars on top of his. A lithe and battered figure rose out from the burnt shadows and cast her silent gaze upon him. She bit back a smile and chocked back a sob.

"You sounded… worried when you called just there, as if you feared I might not still be alive. It surprises me that you are not able, after all these years, to gauge my determination to survive."

He rested his forehead between the bars in heart-pounding relief and closed over his eyes for a second, allowing her to continue in a sore voice.

"The Salan, the Pa'nar Syndrome, the Trillium, Tolaris, and many more I care not to recall. You, of all the crew aboard Enterprise who have gotten to know me well, should have known terrorist Andorians could not kill me."

Slowly his hazel gaze opened again and he could not help but break out into a smile as he looked upon her calm, bruised and bloodied face.

"Are you alright?"

A stupid question, he chides himself, but then he had thought he was being ridiculous calling out her name in the corridor just seconds ago.

"Yes."

It was exactly the lie he was expecting and she knew this, but they let it slide together.

Jonathan stepped back from the prison, surveying the door with an intense gaze. At his hip his phase pistol sat keenly, the setting already at kill. He eyed the panel on the wall beside the hinges.

"It requires a four-digit code."

She continued to gripped at the bars, obviously needing them for support, but she stood tall enough to avoid it looking as so. Keeping her breath tight and quiet through her nostrils he was very nearly fooled into thinking she was not as bad as she appeared, but it was understandable enough just from doing a double-take on her surface injuries that she had taken her fair share of negotiation beatings by now.

"This is too easy."

He reluctantly dropped his sights from the panel and loosened his hovering fingers on the handle of his pistol. T'Pol looked at him knowingly, fighting to keep rising disappointment and fright from her expression anyway, but failing miserably.

"No guards in the Cargo Bay, none here or anywhere in the corridor. Just me, you and that other poor Vulcan down there. They're waiting for us to make the first move, to give them something to work on, something to make an advantage out of."

T'Pol's brow quipped. "What other Vulcan?"

Looking back briefly at the junction Jonathan's face pained and he barely contained yet another churning sea of guilt and pity from inside the crux of his stomach.

"The one who it looks like they were more hopeful about getting something out of her rather than you, but didn't. Pale, blonde, strange looking actu—"

"T'Kai."

"What?"

"Her name is T'Kai. We will not be leaving here without her. There are no other logical choices here but to shoot open the panel. If you simply stand here and do nothing, then nothing will happen, good or bad. Bringing Yulae or Dulac up here however on our move may mean we can make good of a bad situation, something you seem to have the skills for doing anyway."

Twenty-four hours spent in a cell alone, he reasoned, would give anyone enough time to think of her escape route, fantasise of one even. Thus, he did not ask questions, except one.

"Yulae?"

A spill of colour drained from her already sallow cheeks. She found suddenly that eye contact was hard to keep and her throat turned viciously dry. He understood.

"The lead rebel."

She nodded, appreciating that he understood.

"Alright, stand back then."

He seized the gun tight again in his right hand and held it at arms length. She looked up with a strange, desperately hopeful gleam across her face and stepped to the side, creating formidable armour for herself from the inside wall without a panel.

His arm trembled slightly, and he didn't know why. He was wracked with anxiety and felt a back-of-the-throat shiver rush through his legs hard. For her sake though he grabbed himself and kept his aim and fire steady. The red beam seared through the panel effortlessly and the door wailed in a whirring of mechanics. It only opened fractionally but T'Pol forced herself with grit determination to fit through and she found herself stumbling in to Jonathan's waiting arms.

Embarrassed, and she didn't know why, she pulled away from him as soon as some amount of balance found her again and he looked on with a half-smile and a tearful eye. She didn't have time enough to realise the approaching embrace, and found herself caught up in his powerful, compassionate hold once again before she could protest. She doubted she would have objected it if she'd know anyway.

"You sure as hell know how to make a scene about disappearing. I don't suppose you could call this the last time before it becomes a habit though?"

She understood the relief that was expressed through his trembling humour, and could only apologise by doing just the same as she had back at the Compound space dock; return the embrace. It surprised him no less to feel her hands slide over his back as she willingly rested her cheek in his chest, and he no less appreciated it as he held on as tightly as he dared could to her undeniably bad physical state.

She eventually pulled away, an expression of pain knotted through her guilty gaze at having to break the sentimentality of the reunion. The squeezing of her broken and bruised ribs against his solid chest however was just a little too much to pay with simply to be physically close to someone.

"Wait."

As quickly as she realised something, she had disappeared through the cell's doorway again, leaving Jonathan to frown and stand worried and impatient in her wake.

"What is it?"

He watched through the window as she grabbed something from off a bloodied bench and tucked it into the tight belt of her filthy and torn beige jumpsuit: the photographs, although he was oblivious to this.

She made to move out again when suddenly she felt a sharp loss of breath and clutched desperately to her chest whilst doubling over, as if holding it would save her from coughing violently, which was just what she did next.

Jonathan panicked, then tried to force himself through the slim gap in the doorframe, but to no avail.

The Klingon timed his moment perfectly to appear now on the brig

Jonathan was given a first hand example of how the lift to his left worked. Before him a brilliant array of what could only be described as divine red dust began to form an abstract cylinder shape. From there it became almost humanoid in appearance, and then it grew in height before it produced limbs, a torso and lastly actually physical matter in which to make a body with. He had seen this strange, compelling sight before, once almost five years ago when waging defensive war against a handful of bullying Klingon marauders. The sight no less chilled him now than it did then.

To Jonathan all Klingons looked very near a carbon copy of the next with the exception of varying heights and lengths of beards. This one was an acceptation to his rule. With an unusually high-ridged brow and a deep brown scar carved in to his left temple Jonathan knew exactly who he was. He was the Klingon who wanted revenge for his deceased brother via the torture and death of the veteran Captain that was Jonathan Archer. His filthy, battle-worn hammer seemed to agree with that idea.

T'Pol forced down the urge to finish coughing until her lungs were good and done doing so. She looked up at Jonathan, his sudden silence arousing worry in her. He was not even looking at her anymore. Ignoring the awful pain as she had been taught all her life to do she walked back to the door and began to squeeze herself through again, working her way to asking what was wrong. This was when Jonathan finally remembered her again.

"No, no get back in, _in!_"

Through natural instinct alone, her entire body on the defence since she had been boarded on to this ship, when Archer moved to push her back in she pushed back out, and with surprising strength in her ramming shoulder. He found himself up against the opposite wall of the corridor.

Her common sense lost for now she did not think to look at what had grabbed his attention so horrifically, instead throwing herself through the ajar door and then down to the floor were Jonathan sat stunned more by her remaining strength than by what she had actually done.

"I apologise," she fought to keep her voice level, "you… startled me when—"

He grabbed her by both upper arms and threw her behind him, just as she caught on to the sound of thundering footsteps walking up the corridor.

_"Heghlu'meH QaQ jajvamHoD_ Archer!"

Archer looked briefly back at a further still stunned T'Pol. She had been thrown in to the corner, and so he dutifully stood before her.

"Sir, he says it is a 'good day for you to die'. I would encourage that you defend yourself prior to myself, as I do not seem the prime target here."

Archer stood to disagree with both of them.

He held his pistol out again as the infuriated Klingon walked forward with a sickly smile plastered across his scarred and dirtied face, his hammer twirling and dancing skilfully before him. He obviously stood by what he said.

"A good day to die for me, eh? I'd rather not Dulac, and I'd rather you didn't either T'Pol."

He could see the Klingon did not have eyes for her, but he was hardly going to move away and leave her stripped of any line of defence.

The pistol was at kill. He found no moral problem in committing murder tonight. He aimed, he tensed his finger to fire, and suddenly, anticipating his actions Dulac hurdled his own weapon forward.

She knew when Yulae caught her again he would kill her, if not now then in a matter of a few days time. She knew even if Yulae did not kill her, if he simply held her prisoner forevermore, she would suffer far worse than she already had, and then die of whatever injuries or mistreatment he pressed on her. She knew if she was not taken off this ship soon and treated by a doctor, which seemed unlikely to happen within the next hour, she could very well die within a matter of reasonable time from her existing wounds anyway.

She knew Jonathan had a better chance than she could ever hold now. And she knew that part of her job subscription as a Captain's First Officer was to make sure that his life always came before hers. She valued that order specifically.

Jonathan had often been told by those who had suffered near-death experiences that time had a cheeky tendency to slow down as the events you think are going to kill you happen. That hammer could not have sliced through the air any faster. _He_ could not have been moving any slower.

He felt a set of chipped fingernails scratch his back slightly as two hands grabbed his shirt and began to throw him forward and down. The weight of the palms was too much for him and he felt his knees cave in as the hammer charged forward closer. Seconds later he was on the floor, his chest winded as he hit the warm steel surface hard.

Those palms never came down with him. The pressure of them left as he fell forward, feeling the rush of wind the hurdled weapon created as it flew just past the tips of his fine head of hair. There was a heavy, connecting thud and then a crash behind him as something else crumpled to the ground with the hammer.

His heart stopped.

**_"No!"_**__

It was not he who screamed, or even the Klingon, but the Andorian who had just materialised on the deck with them in a blaze of red dust.

"Dulac you _idiot_! She was _this_ close to telling me about the Federation! And you killed her! I said you could have the Captain, and the Captain _only_. You—"

He faded fast into the background as Jonathan's body began to tremble. With his palms pressed firmly into the floor he began to leaver himself up, but only got to his knees. His back sagged and he felt the last meal he had eaten trickle up through his throat. In front of him the Klingon and the Andorian continued to bawl.

Jonathan felt himself beginning to say 'no' very quietly, before he called out his Sub Commander's peculiar Vulcan name in a hoarse whisper. There was no answer, so he began to turn.

There was a quiet whimpering noise that he had missed, drowned out by the argument now behind him. Something continued to thump against the floor, and he felt a warm liquid begin to soak his trouser bottoms and stick to his ankle.

She was convulsing and bleeding out from a gaping tear across her stomach. He could see she hand not been hit in any of the important organs that would kill her immediately, but she had been hit where she would in a matter of minutes pass away and find herself joining the past decease of the world.

Jonathan scrambled clumsily towards her and quickly gathered her up in his arms. He knew what he had just told himself was the ultimate and unarguable truth, but he twisted it so badly in his mind that he convinced himself if he got her to Phlox soon enough she could be saved. She herself knew better.

"D—don't bother."

He shook his head furiously at her, pressing his palm into the wide, growing wound as he tried to catch and stop the oceans of blood that pulsed out every few seconds.

"If T'Kai…" she frowned as if irritated at herself for having to stop and take a breath after every few syllables, and more irritated still that Jonathan tried to hush her, "If she is still… alive… take her to Phlox… and, help—help her find a permanent… place in Starfleet. She will… serve there well."

"No," he sounded like an infuriated child who had been refused his own way, "no, don't speak like that."

She might not have directly said she was all but ready to die, but she very much implied that rescuing and redeeming the poor, human-like Vulcan was her dying wish. She forced herself to carry on with her last words, ignoring the temptation to fade into the warm, welcoming darkness that crept up through the back of her mind.

"I think—" she coughed up a spill of sweet, salty blood as it crawled through and out the corner of her mouth, "I think… it might be too late, to say it… and I might be wrong…" his hand ran through her knotted hair and across her hot forehead as he whispered throughout the speech that she would be alright, "but I think… I might love you."

She frowned again, disorientated and light-headed, unsure of that really anymore, but knowing for whatever reason, she did have to say it. He made her look directly at him, locking their eyes just as hers began to glaze over. She wanted to hear what he had to say first though, so she kept the heavy lids opened a little.

"Well that's good, because I think I love you too. And when we get back to the ship together we can let Trip know he was right so he can rub it in, and then let Phlox—"

"No," she used very ebbing bit of strength to raise her soft hand to his flushed cheek, "no… You know Jonathan… that we will not be going back together. You know you have to leave… me and make sure this doesn't… happen to another. Get T'Kai out, and let my family know… I was sorry."

He didn't give her head time to loll back as he pulled her entire upper body into his heaving chest and buried his soaking cheeks into her coarse, warm hair, just as she took her last relieved breath.

She had gotten the reality across to him, and he hated her for it.

For hours he thought he sat and rocked back and forth with her slowly cooling body cradled in between his sprawled legs, her green blood dousing his shirt, his tears soaking her hair. He never wanted to uncurl himself from her. He never wanted to leave the last spot she had ever stood alive on. He never wanted to have to face his crew with this and he never wanted to have to pass that message on to her family.

A sympathetic hand fell upon his shoulder.

"It's alright Captain. This one I'll fix for you both."

When he looked up his world was green and blue, a shimmering azure sky and sweet tender grass flooding his waterlogged vision. The air was natural, the earth solid and the planet Earth. Before him lay the Golden Gate Bridge of San Francisco, its magnificent red glory a blessed sight.

He was standing on earthly ground, dressed in a loose plain white t-shirt and navy blue jogging bottoms, the uniform he donned throughout most of his physical Starfleet training. He was on his own, except for the hand on his shoulder, and the person in which it belonged to.

"Daniels?"

He smiled, which was a funny expression for one who looked perpetually worried in a comic sort of way. He smiled with genuine sympathy though, and so the odd gleam in his eyes and twitch at the corners of his lips could be forgiven, or more overlooked.

"Don't worry about her Sir, she's safe."

Jonathan looked quickly down at his chest, then at the palms of his hands and his trouser bottoms. He was clean. No green Vulcan blood, no tear stains, no slight scratches on his back or small bruise on his elbow from when she had unwittingly hurdled him into the wall. No T'Pol.

"What the hell's happened now? Why are we in San Francisco and tell me T'Pol's not dead."

Daniels grimaced slightly and Jonathan's face grew dark and demanding.

"Well… yes. But that can be fixed, because it wasn't meant to happen, and well, someone made a big mistake making sure it did."

Shuttlecrafts and cars flew by them, heading for the bridge, all seeming to flock towards Starfleet's grand headquarters. Jonathan realised he was right next to a high street and just off the grassy knoll that they stood on was a walkway of shops and flats.

"I think, to explain to you a few things, we're going to have to take a walk."

Jonathan was heading towards a LCD newsstand on the curb of a pavement. He already had that idea firmly in his mind.

"Daniels," the time traveller followed behind rather meekly in the presence of the none-amused Captain, "you sure as hell better explain yourself, and you better do it fast."

_A.N_ - Dun dun _dun!!!!!_


	16. Travelling Through The Ages

_A.N_

Just a couple of things to say really.

_John_, my dear, why did you read fifteen chapters, no less than 109037 words, just to say _that_? If I were reading a story that I didn't like as much as you seemed not to like this one, then I'd have given up post-chapter one and went on to something else. What a poor, sad waste of time. So moving on.

If you haven't figured out by now that T'Pol is more of the central character in this than anyone else, well this chapter should just about tip the scales completely.

(Let me know, also, if this story's starting to wear thin slightly. Just in case I'm dragging it on too much.)

. . . . . . .

Trip, in the seven years he had served upon Enterprise, had often been put in charge as Captain. Although he had his flaws when playing the position, lacking the 'edge' that Archer had and the calm, emotionless front T'Pol boasted, he was made of as fine a captaining material as either of them and very much enjoyed the promotion when he had it. He often wondered to himself when he sat in the chair if he really could become a Captain of his own NX one day...

Often the crew would jokingly call him 'Captain Trip' if circumstances weren't unfortunate that he had become head of the ship and he quite enjoyed the ring of it.

Today was not one of those days where he was 'Captain Trip'. Today he was Sir and everyone else that he called was either 'Lieutenant', 'Ensign' or 'Crewmember'.

Before him on the screen at the front of the bridge space was empty and silent, tossing him a sharp cold shoulder, and before Sulak his console read the same. It had been like this for the entire half hour Archer had now been gone.

"Sulak," he did not know any of the Vulcans' by their own High Command ranks and so they had the honour of going by their names, "try scannin' for any human bio signs within as far a radius as you can."

The Vulcan looked up, almost bleary eyed, and faced the man sat edgily in the Chair.

"It will be a long search without any specific co-ordinates."

Trip sighed. "Well ah can't give 'y any ah'm afraid. Just start lookin' until we have a better idea of what to do."

Sulak obeyed without another word. He never thought he'd wish it, but he would rather Captain Archer was sitting in that chair now.

Trip looked briefly back at Malcolm. His treasured best friend looked wracked with worry, and not the kind that almost always stained his somewhat rouged features. This worry was piercing his conscience and thundering away at his flighty heart. Trip pained with him.

Before him he then watched Hoshi and Travis. They had been doing it the whole past half-hour, stealing the occasional glance at each other when they judged that the other wasn't looking. Amidst the circumstances it was... sweet, as with it there was an obvious mild infatuation in each of their shy gazes.

Sulak was nothing great to watch so Trip gave him a miss. Until something dawned on him at that moment, minutes after the command had been given.

He had been told by Malcolm in the Captain's ready room, when he was being briefed on why Archer had left them so fast, who Sulak was.

"He's T'Pol's older brother, or at least one of two."

Trip had given an involuntary smirk. "Really?"

Malcolm nodded with his usual sincerity. "I wouldn't say anything though Sir, I believe he is rather worried about her, even if he wont admit it."

So Trip hadn't, sticking by the advice of his First Officer. The fact did creep back up on him though and so he slumped slightly in the chair as his face paled.

Lizzie. Oh how he had been so worried after hearing about the tragedy that had hit Florida, when at first had held out hope that maybe, just maybe, she was still alive. How he had been made to remember so many childhood memories, even also some more recent adulthood ones. Of when they had gone to Australia together for than one spectacular month, of all the building openings that had come from her designs he had attended with her. All the birthday parties with her and Christmases spent with their older brother as well, the three of them inseparable but Trip and Lizzie always with that little extra glue between them.

And how it still seared him when he thought of her even today, even at this moment. How he sometimes had to clamp down on his fist with his teeth just to stop the urge to punch the nearest wall in, or punch Malcolm because he still had a sister and just did not appreciate her, as she did not him.

So he turned around in the chair and faced the tight-featured Vulcan.

"Y' must be worried 'bout her."

Everyone looked up and Sulak looked mildly surprised at being addressed in casual conversation when he had just been given such a strenuous order to execute.

"Excuse me?"

Trip smiled weakly, trying his best to look sympathetic towards a being who most likely would not understand it. T'Pol had given him just enough practice of this though in their earlier years together for him to almost get the expression's intended meaning across.

"Ah had a sister once, a younger one, just like T'Pol is to you. And ah might have wanted to strangle her dead sometimes," mild alarm arose in the Vulcan's gaze, "but ah loved her so much that ah'd have murdered ma own best friend for her."

Malcolm shifted in his chair slightly.

"Unfortunately she was killed in the Xindi attack. Ah'd have traded ma career aboard Enterprise to have made sure that didn't happen, but it did. Ah went out though, into the Expanse, an' made sure ah did everythin' ah could to make sure she didn't die in vain. Ah almost died a couple times maself in the process, but ah don't regret a think ah ever did for her name."

Sulak tried his best not to relate to what the human was telling him, but he failed miserably trying not to look interested and even, to a fleeting degree, pained.

"Y' might resent yer own baby sister for what she's done, hangin' 'bout with the likes of us an' all that, tellin' the High Command to stuff it, but you'll never resent _her_. An' if ah were you ah'd be worried if it was anyone but Jon goin' out there after her, but lucky for y' both it is."

There was silence and Trip smiled.

"Sir."

Trip nodded, encouraging the Vulcan to go on.

"I've detected a ship."

He jumped from the chair and was behind the Science Officer in two tremendous leaps.

"Where?"

Sulak typed furiously at his console.

"They have just put down their clocking device and the ship is dropping down to Impulse, shall we do the same?"

Hoshi turned before he could answer.

"Sir we're being hailed."

Trip frowned. "Stall it for a second. Travis drop to Impulse with them."

Both obeyed with a silent nod.

"Where is it?"

Sulak slowly found his eyes distracted from the console as he began to look up and out, ignoring the commanding officer. His eyes shone with a strange and shamefully frightened horror.

"Sir, it's in front of us."

Trip reeled when he looked up with him.

"Jesus..."

Not quite a divine sight, but Trip looked upon it with as much awe and fear as any man would if faced by God himself.

The grey, metallic monstrosity before them was easily twice as big as Enterprise and appeared twice, if not three times as powerful. Shaped like an arrowhead with a two forked tail it could easily have held fifteen, sixteen decks and a good five hundred-strong crew with plenty room to spare for tens of torpedoes, lasers and a fair few spacious brig decks. Trip was impressed, and not pleased.

"Hoshi let the hail through."

Trip's ears cringed as the hysterical bombardment of a flustered Andorian hit them, his figure filling the screen in place of the ship as he paced back and forth furiously, insanely.

"Where are they?!"

Trip blinked, then attacked with a frown cemented into his own infuriated expression.

"What d' _mean_, 'where are they'?"

Yulae laughed, but did not smile.

"You _humans_! How primitive do you think we are? Your Captain, and the Vulcan, where are they?!"

Trip wanted to punch something, naturally, but the closest thing he had as he walked to the front of the bridge was Hoshi, and he liked her too much to do so. His fists did clench though, and she did shift uncomfortable at her station as she watched his entire body tremble.

"Aboard with you last time ah checked. An' we wouldn't mind 'em back either, thank you."

Behind him Sulak seemed to grow almost excited.

"Sir, I've picked up a Vulcan bio sign. It's very weak, but close enough."

Trip turned to him and nodded, ignoring the Andorian as he decided to parade the triumph directly in front of him.

"Well, you heard what Cap'in Archer's orders were when we found her, beam 'er up."

"I'll warn you now human, you have the wrong V--"

"_Now_, Malcolm!"

The Lieutenant was gone, bolting off to the transporter room without ever daring to query why the new Science Officer never detected any human bio signs, or what it sounded like Yulae was about to say.

The Andorian rebel decided not to correct the Commander, but neither did he guess what Malcolm had dashed off to do. He looked not entirely pleased.

"That Vulcan is _mines_, and the Captain belongs in all right of their laws to the Klingons now. So you might as well give them up, wherever you've put them, because in the end I'll have them both dead whether you like--"

_"We don't have them!_ But accordin' to our scans here, _you_ at least have T'Pol. An' she _is_ comin' back with us whether your sick-ass mind likes it or not! Hoshi cut him off."

She did so in a flash and before them the warrior ship loomed placidly in the silent echo of space once again.

"What the _hell_ was that all about?"

Travis and Hoshi looked on in terrified silence, both wondering now what they would have been doing right now if they had ended up on the Horizon instead, as planned and booked and then cancelled when this catastrophe arose.

Sulak poured over his console enough that Trip could not hook his flaring blue gaze into the Vulcan's concentrating brown one.

"Sir, there are no human bio signs aboard that ship. The shuttle is aboard, but as far as these readings can detect, your Captain is not."

"But T'Pol is?"

"I'm assume the one Vulcan bio signs I am picking up is hers, yes."

Trip sighed. "Ah thought Vulcans didn't 'assume'."

"I am merely pointing out to you the most logical conclusion I can here Sir, as we have little else to go on at the moment."

Trip moved to the door of the bridge, it obvious that he was about to follow Malcolm out.

"Yeah? Like brother like sister ah say."

. . . . . . .

His fingers rapped nervously along the dull silver panel upon which Malcolm worked rather furiously with the stubborn passenger he was trying desperately to transport onto the platform before them, and not out into the middle of space, or into an empty airlock. She wasn't for being pulled apart molecule by molecule and then reconfigured within the space of five seconds easily though.

Trip curled his fingers into a fist and threw it at his side. Malcolm tried his best to ignore him as he began to pace.

"It's been over a minute now Malcolm, what the hell's goin' on?"

The Lieutenant put the tip of his tongue, which had been sitting clenched in between his tight lips, back in his mouth as he continued to move the two leavers up and down patiently.

"I'm finding it difficult to get a proper hold on her straight away, that's all. So unless you want her back limb for limb then I'd suggest you prey that me taking my time will assures we get a whole body back on board with us in one piece."

Trip came back to Malcolm's side, pressing his palms into the side of the panel as the frustrated Lieutenant continued to work.

"C'mon T'Pol, play along with us for once, would ya?"

Malcolm pulled down on the left panel as Trip muttered away, and then suddenly thought he felt a victorious tug twinge his entire arm. A slow, reluctant smile crept along his pale lips and not a few seconds later a majestic shower of silvery blue dust hovered before them, beginning to rapidly take up the form of a curled, shivering female body. As she finished commuting between ships and took on full form, they saw it was indeed a Vulcan, but any Vulcan except T'Pol .

Malcolm dashed to the nearest comm.

"Reed to Sickbay, we have a medical emergency down here. Assistance required immediately."

Trip stood before the panel stumped beyond belief and looking... _slightly _aghast. Malcolm gazed at him quickly, unable to catch his eye to exchange words with just looks before he ran over to the Vulcan - he hesitated to call her in his mind - that they had just unwittingly transported aboard.

"Ma'am, are you alright?"

Stains of green blood began to spoil the immaculate silver finish of the transporter room floor. A set of thin pointed ears produced from a dirty tangle of blonde hair. She was undeniably Vulcan, but easily looked like she could have been part something else. Finally managing to share a look they both paled as they thought of what the 'something else' most obviously could to be. White skin, blue eyes, scrawny physique; they tried not to comprehend it, but it was an impossible task. Finally she spoke, and thus redeemed herself slightly with a flat and rather deep tone.

"Your Captain is gone, and T'Pol with him."

Gathering his decency Trip aided the strong willed Vulcan up, holding onto her torn hand and bony elbow carefully as she almost instantly picked up her balance. Malcolm hovered over at the other side of her, assuring she would not end up crumpled to the floor. They continued to look upon her now with a more curious fear, the initial rude shock stepping quietly aside as they took in the brunt of her appearance and began to accept it, for now.

"Were y' aboard the Andorian ship?"

She nodded, allowing them to show her the way to wherever their sickbay was. Her trust of humans was painfully apparent. Their trust was not.

"Where'd they go?"

She looked at Trip earnestly, and almost pitifully. "After the Klingon killed T'Pol they disappeared. Just at the junction of the corridor. I managed to see it through the window of my cell." She didn't stop as she saw the devastating drop in each man's face. "Believe me though, please, they disappeared quite literally through thin air. Gone, completely. And so there is a chance your First Officer still lives."

She stumbled slightly and Malcolm made to catch her, but she had enough determination and pride that she caught herself. She smiled slightly and they fought not to reel back together as the expression graced her mucky face.

"Thank you. I can't hope to tell you anymore, but thank you, for getting me away from him."

The doors opened and the three continued on out, one of the few crewmembers who was medically trained there to join them as they walked on now one Vulcan up one Vulcan and one Captain down. Trip forced a thin, wiry smile upon his lips, still as 'Captain Trip'.

"No problem ma'am."

Malcolm sighed. It was going to be a long rescue mission.

. . . . . . .

The air around him was nothing. There was no breeze, no temperature, no smell and no texture. No clamminess, no sound, no currents, nothing. It was the future's way of telling him he was not a part of this, and not particularly welcome either. He could still see everything, hear the shuttlecars scooting by overhead, feel the soft blades of grass which crawled cheekily up his trouser legs as he crossed the spongy knoll. But to them, to the senses of this world, he was nothing more than an intruder.

Daniels ignored them as he trudged behind the Captain.

"Well I suppose you could let the _newsstand_ explain everything if you want. It's not like it's _my_ job to do that or anything."

Jonathan ignored him. Watching T'Pol die had not exactly put him in the mood for any spiteful humour the time traveller had to offer, even if there was a chance she could be saved - 'a certainly', Daniels had declared to an uncertain Jonathan.

His feet grounded on tarmac and he waked across it with slightly more gratitude for its liner formation, a rare thing in San Francisco he understood, and appreciated it just a little more for that. The newsstand stood just over a deserted road before him that neatly lined the one endless row of closed and deserted shops and office buildings there. It was the skies tonight that were full, and Starfleet where traffic was accumulating nicely.

"Sir?"

It appeared Daniels was having a time keeping up with Jonathan's eager, fast-footed pace, as he nervously scanned his surrounding with strange grey-blue eyes.

"Sir, I would advice you tread a little more discreetly."

Jonathan ignored him as he mounted the pavement and came to a stop, finally, to Daniels' relief, at the LCD computer stand. He read it briefly, then turned behind him slowly.

"2264."

Daniels nodded matter-of-factly, with something of a faintly pleased smile upon his thin lips. He still glanced from side to side and up and down nervously though.

"_Why _Daniels, have you taken me one-hundred and six years into the future?"

The time travelled quipped a small smile upon his expression.

"Impressive math there Sir."

Jonathan growled.

"Alright, alright. But not here, I'm not explaining everything here, at least not if you insist on wearing just that."

Jonathan gave his white tee and jogging bottoms a quick glance over with his sincere hazel gaze again.

"I never insisted--"

"Come on, come on, through here. This'll do, I suppose."

Daniels took the lead now as he turned rather disapprovingly into a side alley beside a comic book shop. An impressive display of Star Wars memorabilia lived in the immaculate front window display.

Jonathan took another look at the newsstand, taking an extra five seconds to read the headline for September 6th 2264.

'**_U.S.S Enterprise Takes Her First Flight With Third Captain, James T. Kirk'_**

Jonathan raised a brow. Daniels waved him forward impatiently.

"Yeah, lucky for us everyone's headed to Starfleet to watch the Christening of that. Means we get the rest of San Francisco to ourselves, almost. If anyone is here to see you though..."

Jonathan's brow stayed high, and amused, almost mocking his companion's worry.

"What, they'll recognise me?"

"Yes," was Daniels instant and blunt reply, "You and your crew have the most well known faces in Starfleet history. You're Captain _Kirk's_ childhood hero for Pete's sake. People _will_ know it's you when they see you. I just hope T'Pol has as much common sense as her successor not to go wondering off into plain sight. If there was ever a more famous Vulcan than Spock, then it had to be the great-grandmother of that first ever Vulcan-Human hybrid. Of course why would T'Pol settle for any lesser a title than _that_?"

It sounded like Daniels was beginning to think his personal opinions allowed. Jonathan looked at him with a washed expression, and spoke with a humbled tone.

"Childhood hero?"

Daniels lunged forward and, biting the poker-hot bullet, grabbed Jonathan's writs, leading him into the alleyway with him now.

"Come _on_."

As soon as they melted into an overcast of dingy, black back alley shadows Jonathan took his wrist back and returned the confused scowl to his face.

"Now would you mind explaining why we're here and where the hell T'Pol is?"

Standing in front of the stalwart Captain at a good few inches shorter and a good few pounds lighter Daniels, for the perpetual worrier and pale-faced man that he was, kept his authority and importance held well in his brisk and proud stance. When assigned such important jobs as this he couldn't help but feel that in one lifetime or another he would be heading for bigger things. Jonathan might have looked at his odd, crooked smile warily, but Daniels didn't mind, and never let those aspirations die.

In the next second he had to rid the smile out of respect for knowing what he was about to say was no pleasant news, or at least sounded less appealing than the actual situation was.

"Ah, T'Pol is still... Well, she's not quite, alive... as of yet."

"You mean she's still on that ship?"

Relieved that he could make this sound at least a little better Daniels shook his head eagerly.

"No, no, _heavens_ no. There's not a person alive in this universe except her own father who hates her enough to keep her on _that_ ship any much longer. No, she's dead, but safe enough."

Jonathan gawped. "_Dead_, but 'safe enough? Daniels you are going to make sense very soon or-- "

Daniels nodded eagerly again. "Yes, yes, okay. Well for now she's... safe in storage, okay? You'll see her alive and well soon enough."

Jonathan shook his head to himself, grinding his teeth slowly together but managing to keep quite, allowing Daniels to go on.

"As to _why_ you're _here_, specifically. Well..."

Jonathan could feel a twitch kicking up in the corner of his eye, triggered whenever Daniels chose to say 'Well' in that long drawn manner of his.

"You're not 'here', in this specific time and place for any real reason other than it's probably just a little ironic joke They're playing right now. But we don't ask and They don't demote us. Here is safe, that's all you really need to know about that."

"Daniels. A crux to the point any time soon would be greatly appreciated."

"Right, right. So now for the 'why'. This one may take a while."

Jonathan looked back at the sheen of grey steel behind him. Pressing his back to it he slid down towards the cold stony ground and looked back up at Daniels with a slightly more subdued gaze.

"Well I've just killed one hundred and six years with you. What's another hour or so?"

Reluctantly Daniels followed the Captain down to the ground and sat rather uncomfortably on the edge of a murky, ice-cold puddle.

"True. So, the why. Well, the why begins with a mistake made last year, a _big_ mistake, made in 2157 that is I mean, not--"

"I get it."

Daniels nodded once. "Right. Well that mistake was the Andorian attack on the Vulcan Compound that I believe Admiral Forrest filled you in on last week."

Jonathan nodded in turn.

"Good. Well you'll know six Vulcans died in that attack then."

Jonathan fought to remember the specifics of the conversation, also remembering that he had been slightly distracted at that time. He then frowned slowly.

"The Admiral told me five died that day, I think."

"Yes, he did, her told you they lost five 'men' as we would say, or as they preferred to be called, 'defensive guards'. But they also lost a sixth more... innocent bystander, an elder."

Jonathan felt a flicker of compassion and no more.

"So?"

Daniels brought his knees up and wrapped his arms around them, warming and settling himself slightly.

"So, that Vulcan was an elder _judge_. He had a Session booked for six months on, half a week after Enterprise was due to come home for the last time. As he was killed though obviously he couldn't make it. Another judge had to be called in to take his place, one who you and I might say is an old friend to a casual enemy."

Jonathan found himself slowly engaging more and slightly more into Daniels words.

"Casual enemy?" he asked, leaning in a little.

"A one Vulcan father known best by the name of Taron."

Jonathan swallowed back a chock. "_T'Pol's_ father?"

Daniels nodded and the obvious began to fall into place for the Captain.

"So I take it this hearing was T'Pol's from a few days ago then?"

Daniels beamed. "Bingo. Top of the class for you. Yep, the new judge booked to see through T'Pol's hearing and write out her sentence is none other than an old Ambassador that Taron found himself working closely with on a few cases in the past to do with other 'rebel' Vulcans."

Jonathan sighed. "So where's the major playing 'mistake' in all this? I take it it's to do with the original judge's death anyway?"

A strange shimmer of muted pride glanced over Daniel's expression.

"That is _exactly_ where it lies. The poor elder judge shouldn't have been in the Compound the day of the attack. He should have been in Starfleet, to talk to another young Vulcan who had chosen to work with humans there. Unfortunately the young Vulcan had an accident that day involving a communicator that should never have been left lying where it was, because the young Ensign who left it where he did had been called away on an emergency that should never have happened because of another careless Crewman, and well, it goes on for a while. We're still trying to pinpoint the exact moment where the mistake was born, but for now we only know the meeting should never have been cancelled and the elder should have gone to Starfleet instead of visiting the deserted gardens to meditate. A simple crime, and a shameful one too because as far as Vulcans go in the fifties of your time, he was quite an honest and fair ma-- Vulcan. He would have given T'Pol no worse a ruling than to stay on Earth and work with Starfleet, which is what she _should_ have gotten. The sentence she _was_ given however - the wrong sentence - is the next major player here in this whole timeline mess that's been created. Are you following alright?"

Jonathan saw from the corner of his eye a slim grey shadow dart by, but it was nothing more than a stray cat. He nodded slowly to Daniels.

"Judge was killed when he shouldn't have been. Leads to another judge being appointed and giving T'Pol the wrong sentence. Thus leading to..."

"Leading to now, or what was now before - 2158. Leading to her boarding the Phae then being taken by Yulae then interrogated on a matter she doesn't know anything about. She can't give them what they want to hear so firstly they kill her, then you, then destroy Columbia and eventually wage a much bigger war on humans and Vulcans, with the Klingons on their side. Which is understandable to a degree because the Andorians _were_ simply defending themselves. They believed the Federation to be some sort of _super weapon_, a weapon of mass destruction, aimed specifically for their people and their home. Which obviously it's not, but we don't need to go into any details right now because you know enough yourself about the Federation, thank God."

Jonathan frowned, but asked nothing. He continued to follow silently through in his head, just.

"Anyway. If we go back to this hearing and play it out as it should have been."

Jonathan nodded. "Lets."

"Yes, lets. Firstly T'Pol would have stayed on Earth with Starfleet. In staying on Earth she would have been filled in with the rest of you on what the Federation actually is, or is aiming to be. Then she would have ended up aboard Enterprise with you again. Don't ask now, you but you do get Enterprise back."

A smile graced Jonathan's sombre lips.

"From there T'Pol would still have been kidnapped, but with less of the bloody, gutsy, nasty, mean conclusion to it. She is meant to become a sort of negotiator. It is, to clique it, one of a few of her more important... destinies." Daniels frowned. "Although I hate that word. But never mind. Yes, one of the reason why she's hear in existence is because she gets to play bridge of understanding, letting the Andorians know just enough that they are eventually convinced the Federation is not a weapon, but more of a... peacekeeping Council. But with T'Pol dead because of the wrong sentence from the wrong judge, the Andorians rush into full out attack-mode because no one gives them enough information in time to... calm them, in a sort of way, before they create a storm. Do you still follow, you look bored?"

Jonathan shook his head, rubbing the glazed expression from his eyes.

"No, I follow. No T'Pol, no negotiator on time. War, death, unnecessary losses etcetera. Yes, I get it... just."

Daniels smiled weakly. "Now you're just wondering one thing; why you're not the big negotiator hero in all this, why it's T'Pol instead."

It was not something Jonathan was jealous of, it _was_ a big... destiny to carry across your back, but yes, Daniels was crudely right in his observation; he was wondering now, as the information sunk in slowly, why it was she and not him who got to burden this responsibility.

"Why are you telling me all this and not T'Pol?"

"Come on." Finally Daniels chose to stand and make leave from the dingy alleyway. "They said we're allowed to move on now."

Jonathan blinked, and when he opened his eyes from the unconscious action he found he was blind. Daniels jumped as Jonathan did, more afraid of the swinging power in the Captain's arms than by what initially made Jonathan jump.

"What the--"

His fingers scanned his face and in their search they found a pair of slick, frameless sunglasses, which he pulled off suddenly, not quite amused by their unexplained appearance. Yet another shadow cast over his eyes turned out to have a guilty source derived from a red threaded baseball cap. He held both items out to Daniels accusingly.

"Famous in history or not, if you have at least a basic cover people shouldn't think it's you. Maybe an uncanny look-alike, if anyone even gives you a second glance, but no more. You have been dead for quite some time you know."

Jonathan gave him a tight, meaningless smile.

"Yeah, I got that. Where did they _come_ from?"

Daniels shrugged. You tell me."

With that Daniels was heading out the alleyway and back into the sun kissed high street overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge, leaving a quietly frustrated Jonathan behind until he gathered his feet and began to follow.

"So about why I'm telling you all this and not T'Pol. Well when has there ever been a time when you haven't been allowed to play hero yet, eh?"

Jonathan could not remember Daniels ever having such a bold, dry wit before, but he played along with it and patiently waited for the messenger to carry on.

"What's a First Officer without her Captain?"

Jonathan smiled weakly. "The Captain herself."

Daniels smiled with him. "True, but no, not in this case. Look, I can't say too much. What I have told you is simply either the mistaken past, which you've already had to live though - sorry about that - or the largest scope of what will happen if things aren't fixed. No details, I can't specify details, I just have to say that you need to be there with her when she makes the negotiations, and it helps if you know the details as well, okay?"

Jonathan frowned, feeling he should just keep the dip in his brow permanent. Looking down at the shorter man though, who at his side matched him stride for stride, he could not help but feel some due respect and trust for him.

Alright, I can do that. I'd do that anyway."

Daniels beamed. "Good. The future and my promotion thank you."

Jonathan nodded, feeling a strange, unsure warmth creeping in to line his wavering smile.

"You're welcome."

Daniels took a look around at the fresh September day. There may have been nothing in the air to Jonathan, but to him he could feel the current of human aspiration and pride trickle through the cool, welcoming breezes. That happiness and the spirit it carried through accumulated and radiated from Starfleet itself, and Daniels looked over in the direction across the bridge, smiling contently to himself.

"The time line's safe now. Or at least _for_ now. So I suppose doing a little travelling about wouldn't entirely hurt, would it?"

Jonathan held back the frown from his brow and looked at Daniels almost with no expression as he kept himself calm.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to take you up on the offer of seeing-"

They were standing at the back of a rather large and impatient crowd, most of the shadowed rear viewers on their tiptoes as they trembled with excitement. Jonathan was not one of those who trembled with _excitement _necessarily.

"Dani--"

Someone rushed to his side and hushed his quickly. It was Daniels... he guessed. Now rid of his usual black time travelling gear he wore instead three-quarter length grey trousers and a colourful Hawaiian shirt. He chose to speak in a whisper.

"I'm not quite as famous as you. I can pull this off."

Jonathan cocked a brow, challenging his use of words in the latter sentence. Daniels smiled.

"Look to your left."

Hesitantly and further confused, slowly he did anyway.

_"T'P-"_

She hushed him quickly, bringing the tips of her fingers to rest on his dry lips.

"I believe my name is as well known here as yours is."

He had to squint slightly, more stumped by her 'cover' than he was his own and Daniels. Most of her head had been swallowed by a scarf of a fine silvery silk, organza, but being rather naïve on fabrics he didn't know this. A slight line of her forehead showed but apart from that it was only the middle of her face that he could see. She also wore sunglasses. And a white, sleeveless polo neck. And a white ankle-length skirt. And silver sandals. She was dressed very much like a human.

"I did not choose-"

She was in his arms, again. It was getting to be a... habit, she assumed was the right human terminology. However she saw it as being one of those... quirky habits, and gratefully returned his embrace after being promised herself she would eventually see Jonathan again, as soon as Daniels had told her everything.

"We have to go back to the trial."

He grudgingly pulled himself away as she spoke up, still holding onto her shoulders with no less a splitting smile on his face as he nodded vigorously.

"I know, I know, he told me everything." Then he blinked once and tilted his head to the side. "He told you too? But-"

Daniels tapped his shoulder, keeping his tone at a whisper's strength.

"It would be best if you just accepted that I'm good at my job, Sir."

Nodding slowly in a silent 'alright' Jonathan then turned back to T'Pol, the smile cracking his face again as Daniels kept his own eyes front. She didn't smile, but she was obviously enough pleased to see him. Eye contact hard to make between the sunglasses that they both wore, they nonetheless held a longing gaze between them and spoke quietly for a moment through that before Jonathan whispered to her above the electric murmur of the crowd in front of them.

"About what you said, before, before you..."

She nodded in understanding. "I apologies for that. I am... not sure if it was entirely appropriate to say, especially amidst the circumstances. But, my uncertainties aside, I am sure that what I said... was..."

He could see she was struggling. He was struggling to comprehend. So lest the moment be spoiled he hushed her again and calmed his beaming grin to a gentle, emotional smile.

She watched him carefully as he dared to make the major first move and lean forward slightly. This was not a foreign human act to her, not one she hadn't committed before, and so she did the appropriate and rested her palm against his chest, making herself slightly taller as he approached. His breath may have been hot, but it was the only thing she could feel in this time, the air around her being dead to show her she was not entirely welcome where she was. She savoured it just as he suddenly yearned for the soft texture of her face.

The crowd in front of them erupted. Both jumping then pulled away from each other with a fluster of red gracing their pale cheeks. Jonathan, turning to give Daniels an uneasy, guilty look, saw the time traveller was engaged with his eyes front instead. To his other side T'Pol finally chose to look up at what everyone else had been gazing impatiently at.

They were in a white room with a domelike figure and massive capacity to hold thousands almost. At least it seemed thousands were with them now as they all craned their necks up to see one thing; a large screen bent right the way around the curved walls of the top of the room. The same image reiterated itself several times around the room, and T'Pol, Jonathan and Daniels all focused on the same one that to them was directly up front.

He wore a dark yellow top, nothing fancy, no decorations except a motif of sorts on the right side of his chest. Below he wore only a pair of comfortable black trousers. He was young but experienced looking, with a smile that could last an eternity in your memory. It was a smile that looked beyond belief at what was happening around him, and one that knew exactly what had to be done now. Above all else it was a charming, deviant smile. His eyes fitted perfectly with it.

He stood tall in front of a bridge. A bridge not unlike Enterprise's with the all-important Captain's chair almost at the front-centre and several other stations dotted around it. He stood in front of the chair with his chest out and his back straight, his crew around him ready and clearly raring to go.

T'Pol spotted the Vulcan before Jonathan, and knew his name to be Spock, the First Officer and Science Officer aboard the _U.S.S Enterprise_, Captained by the legendary James T. Kirk of who was yet to still exist for a few decades in their time.

"Firstly, I would like to thank my mother-"

His voice captivated the audience into utter, awe filled silence. It was then that Daniels turned to the equally captivated couple.

"You two did a lot of good, to assure this happens. The future really does have a lot to thank you for. Unfortunately we can't stay here, as good as this man's speech becomes. They're saying we're cutting it too close now, and we don't argue with Them, no matter how audacious we feel. Alex is almost done with the judge anyway, so things have pretty much been fixed."

Daniels looked once back at the booming image of Captain Kirk before back to the oddly disguised couple with yet another of his crooked, unsure smiles in place.

"So now it's to home, and the night before the trial, which I'm sure we all remember well enough."

Jonathan and T'Pol shared a look.

"Anyway, we can't leave that poor man running Columbia much longer, he's about to get it blown up."

Jonathan choked, even T'Pol had to frown.

"Wha-"

But then they were gone again, and found themselves sleeping soundly in the two beds of Jonathan's apartment, the night before T'Pol's big trial.

. . . . . . .

"You have five minutes _human_, in which to hand back that Vulcan, or your ship will no longer exist in the state it is in _now!_"

Trip looked long and hard back at the Andorian. His mind was cast only briefly back to ten minutes ago, where he and Malcolm has assured their new guest felt comfortable where she was. She could not have looked more thankful to see food and a bed and her gratitude continued to take voice until they had had to leave her for the bridge, where she instead began to thank Phlox repeatedly instead.

"Y' can chase us across the galaxy for her and for all ah care, you aint gettin' her back! Travis go to Warp 5.8."

"But Sir-"

_"Now!"_

And so the floors began to tremble just as Yulae broke off his transmission.

"Sir, they're locking their weapons."

Trip sat back in the chair, gripping the leather arms tightly.

"Get the torpedoes ready to fire back."

He felt a suicidal pulse jab at his racing blood flow.

"Sir, ten seconds until they fire."

Travis worked furiously at the console, urging on the reluctant engines. The comm. Spoke from on his chair.

"Sir? What you doing up there, the engines are going crazy!"

Trip finally looked back at the bridge door, almost frantically. One finally shudder meant they were finally tearing through space, and seconds later Yulae's ship was following.

"Sir, they're aiming the weapons for our engines instead now. If they hit them successfully at this speed we most likely wont stop until we hot something."

Trip looked fleetingly back at Malcolm, and the Englishman caught a terrible sight; a complete loss of hope in his saddened blue eyes. It was something no one else saw.

"Hoshi, hail the Andorians."

"No time Sir," Malcolm interjected, "We have five seconds until they fire."

Ahead on screen Trip thought he saw the glimmer of a planet's sun, although he could not see any planet. He wondered if this was what would stop them as their tore with no engine through the backyard of space.

The other four looked up at him quietly, their minds travelling along the same wavelength as they each in turn focused on the bright blue spark ahead. Trip's view became blinded by watery guilt.

"Jon, ah'm truly-"

Wherever he was, Daniels smiled, clearly pleased with himself and what he had managed to fix today.


	17. Loose Ends

_A.N_

As haphazardly constructed as this may be, I'm actually quite proud of this chapter -smiles- Well, at least one part of it anyway...

. . . . . . .

To say I had a simple splitting headache that morning would be an insult, to me and the headache. Like a wrath unleashed it bounced back and forth against my taut temples, seeming to enjoy the dancing torture it laid upon me, which not soon after began to creep down my jaw line. I gritted my teeth however, and bared it.

It was because of stress, it always was with me. Throughout my school life, whenever exams would rear their ugly heads, or even bullies for that matter, my temples would always pound and my stomach cease to stop digesting. It was my body's way of dealing with what life had to throw at me, but not how I ever personally would choose to cope. _Personally_ I would find a nice hole to bury myself in, depending on the dilemma, (anything that could be resolved by explosions, well I would take the explosive route) and stay there until the sun shone pretty again. Unfortunately this was never allowed as an option for me, because of society, and so I learnt in the end to grind my teeth, and thus that is why I am my dentist's worst customer.

I gripped the phone tight, my knuckles transforming to a ghoulish white as I closed over my eyes and took in a much-needed mouthful of air, glad at least that she was calling via audio only. For the next ten minutes I allowed my mother to go on, her slight Scottish accent and higher than usual pitch pinching at my eardrums as I occasionally switched the receiver from side to side. It was hard to tell whether she was hysterical, missing her son, drunk or some strange and tragic hybrid of them all. Unfortunately the hybrid was not a completely absurd or comical idea.

"Mal, son, please just come home. Now that you're back on Earth you can come and stay with us again, in Cornwall. Your father and I would love it so much if you did, just please..."

It took me a moment to realise she had finally stopped to allow me an input, but before I could say a word of protest my father was speaking up in the background.

"Give me that Mary, let me speak to the boy."

I quipped my brow, slightly amused, besides the circumstances

"Malcolm, you there?"

Rather wearily I sighed. "Yes, dad."

A could almost picture his battered, scarred and seasoned face now, although many a times I had tried not to. His piercing blue gaze, of which my eyes were a milder take of his, was not an image in my imagination I could easily avoid however.

"What's all this Starfleet nonsense crap you've been jabbering on about to your mother, eh? She's in a right state 'cause of it, hasn't got a clue what you're saying!"

He coughed slightly and I winced with guilt, although I shouldn't have.

"Come home son, you know where you should belong."

I could almost feel the enamel wearing gradually away on my molars as I grinded away, and rather happily so.

"Dad, if you had been listening seven years ago then you'd know by now where I bloody well 'belong'-"

"Watch your tongue boy."

With a frown I battled on with my words, words long since needing to be released.

"I have a career in Starfleet now. I have phase pistols to modify, torpedoes to help align, a Captain to take orders from, a crew to work with, a team to command. I don't belong in England, or Malaysia, or wherever you're all moving to next. _San Francesco's_ where I belong now, or out in space, but not with my family, as tragic as that may sound."

As I said my piece and succumbed to a stop I left along the telephone line a sombre, biting silence. Until my father spoke up once again, with the gruffness in his voice away and a vulnerability lining his tone instead, which I had never heard before. To say it simply frightening me would be an insulting understatement to the cold-blooded fear that gripped my pulse.

"Malcolm, you have to come home. You're ol' man's sick again. I don't know... it just doesn't feel right this time, doesn't feel like it's gonna pass. I can't stay like this and not see you again... just incase, y' know? You have to come home, y' have to let me see you again, eh? Son, please?"

At that very moment I almost let the call fall dead, for I could feel the guilt being served on a plate to me now down the line. I almost took what air there was in my lungs and turned it into a tone he would never hear as angry and ferocious as that again. A tone he would never forget, and one he would always know he helped create, one that he brought forth in such a man who would never dare to speak like so until he is pushed just that little too far to a dangerous edge.

Instead I bared it.

"What is it this time?"

Suddenly there was a hesitation. And so then I knew.

"My kidneys. Doctor says just one more whiskey will be sure to send them packing."

And then the unsure humour in his quaky voice confirmed it. He was lying.

"Dad, you're only seventy-two. And if there were any major problems you'd be in hospital faster than you could stick your arms and legs out to make sure they couldn't get you through the door. I can't come home, and quite frankly, unless I'm direly needed there, I don't want to. I love you, and mum, so much, but I'm just not _ten_ anymore. I need a life of my own, and now that I have one, why make me give it up?"

Again as I let the question hang, and swung the guilt the other way, a silence evoked the call. With the bitterness gone and the sombreness relieved, I could sit back in my chair this time though and wait patiently instead for what would be a more preferable answer.

"We just miss you son."

Finally I smiled, and imagined that down the line he could sense it.

"Then pester Madeline instead. Drag her back from Malaysia for a few weeks; get to know _her_ a little better. I'm just too busy here. I might have come out for a couple days, but the Admirals and Captains have me doing too much that it's near impossible."

A strange soft laughter floated through my eardrum and I frowned with a curious smile.

"Got you working hard, at least. Well... I'm glad."

I knew he wouldn't say 'proud', but he hardly had to. I could feel the warmth of his tear-strained smile radiating against my ear, and I was glad for it.

"I've got some new weapons to try out in the target room. I'll have to get back to you. But remember, phone that sister of mines. And let her know my regards."

Again he laughed in that unfamiliar and gentle way. I liked it.

"As long as we haven't seen the last of you, then I'll let you go, for now."

I nodded. "Thanks, dad. Give mum my regards too."

"Will do."

And with that he was gone.

It took me a few minutes to refocus again, to realise where I was and what I had just done - made peace with my father. It felt almost like I had rehearsed the phone call and pre-planned every battle move to get him to understand. As if I had been given sound advice and together with my initiative just delivered it like a well-remembered speech.

I shook my head. It was as absurd as my notions got, but the creeping déjà vu bothered me until, that is, it just as soon evaporated on the chime from the comm. at the door of my quarters. Rushing forward, simply glad to be doing something, I answered.

"Where are ye? Ah was told y' were supposed to be up in Tactical shootin' off rounds with plasma electricity or somethin'. Ah've got some interestin' news for ya."

Despite every bothered nerve of myself I broke out into a grin. "Alright Commander, keep your shirt on. I'll be right up."

I could sense the grin returned. "Good, good."

The comm. died and as quickly as that happened I forgot the churning déjà vu and began to pull on my uniform, happier with myself than I probably had been for a good seven years or so now.

. . . . . . .

Sweating palms, chewed bottom lip, nails running through my hair, nails jammed between my teeth; it's hardly like I had never apologised before, but this time... it felt like a sentence. Walking through the many corridors of quarters in Starfleet, passing people on the way, to whom I had to nod pleasantly to seeing as they all knew who I was, having to ride so many turbo lifts and pass so many windows of the outside world, I felt like I was doing the archaic death row walk, only with a far more painful execution waiting for me at the end than any needle or chair could be.

Travis. He had been so enraged that I couldn't have helped but feel a pulse of fright course through my veins, which had eventually rendered me speechless. I couldn't have helped but cower slightly at the infuriated flash in his dark, narrowed eyes, or twist in his lips, or shortness in his words before he had shut the door on me and turned deaf to my pleads when eventually I had caught my tongue back.

_'No! I found out a long time ago that I don't raise my hopes with other people. Why I thought you'd be any better I don't know.'_

After the outburst, and when I had walked away and began evaluating his words, I felt an all too natural wave of anger back at him. I pushed it past quickly though and realised, from his perspective, that he had every right to throw an outburst in my face, even if it had sent a sliver of tears down my flustered cheeks.

I had never seen anyone grow particularly close to Travis on Enterprise in the past seven years we had all been aboard together. He was generally well liked, but not generally well known. He was still something of an enigma, although that was not deliberate on his behalf. He was just never one to approach for a long conversation, or any intimate, detailed conversation in general.

Hell, even _I_ had had my moments with the crew. I had shared conversations with T'Pol, and she had learnt a little more about me as an individual just as I had her. I knew Malcolm far better than I had seven years ago, and we often shared time and talks in the gym. I chatted regularly with Trip in the mess hall, and with Phlox on most of the rest of my time off. I even knew Crewman Kelly well enough that we had spent nights together in each other's quarters. But although I had always liked Travis for his upbeat youth and pure determination and hard-working nature, I had never really gotten known him, at all.

He must have felt for the few good days we had spent together so far that he was finally getting somewhere with someone. Certainly I felt we were building quickly on some dusty bond that had lain between us all this time but had gone almost completely untouched for the seven years we had served together.

And to myself I had to forcefully admit I felt quite taken away and smitten whenever he commented on my hair, or some of the past breakthroughs I had made with translations, or even my choice of cuisine for lunch...

Suddenly I stopped walking. Almost running in to me as she went the opposite way, one very young Engineer frowned and shook her head at my unexplained halt before turning a corner to mutter quietly to herself about me.

I was too busy looking and feeling puzzled to be bothered by her. My brow dropped quickly and I walked backwards over the thoughts I had just uttered. Had I really said 'smitten' to myself? In all my life I had never used the word other than when writing trashy romance tales about Cliff and Roseanne in my free-free time. Truly then I did not and could not feel 'smitten' with this enigma of a man who not a day ago had almost literally spat on my face and slammed a door on my nose.

Receiving yet more funny looks from passing staff I forced myself to move on with a lingering frown until finally I reached Travis's door, which was not more than a couple of doors down from where I had hit the breaks.

I raised my fist to the comm. and suddenly it trembled. Grabbing it with my other hand to steady myself I found next I had to suck in a deep, cooling breath before I suffocated on my overdone apprehension. Then, when eventually did I grab the nerve to ring the comm., the door opened just before I could.

We both started. Travis, looking ready to go somewhere with a handful of library disks and scrolls, gathered himself far quicker than I ever could and quickly made to shove past my side. As he did I blinked and scolded myself before I turned after him.

He started again when my hand landed on his shoulder and prevented him from going on any further. He spun on me but I stopped any outburst of words that he was more than likely going to utter with a genuinely sorry look.

"Would you just here me out?"

His left hand went to his temple and he rubbed it gently, as if relieving a headache. I had woken up with a mild one myself, but it had faded away to be replaced by the thundering skipping of my heart as I had remembered what I had to do today. I didn't know also though that he was rubbing away at an annoying déjà vu that had been conjured froth from those six words I had pleaded to him with.

"What?"

He may have tried to sound hostile but it was clear enough at least to me that he was prepared to listen through the slight throbbing of his headache atop the déjà vu.

"Look, I'm sorry. I was an absolute ass about point blank forgetting to come see you. I just got caught up in something."

Travis did not look impressed by the vagueness of my excuses, so pressed by a mildly angry look I went on.

"I met one of Phlox's sons, Aldon. He wanted to show me some things, show off a little I suppose, and you know I can't be rude and just walk away from something like that. The son was fanatically to see someone from the Enterprise crew, so I couldn't just go. But I should have cut it short, or I should have at least called you, I know. But you have to let it go now, and just let me know what you were going to tell me because it's driving me crazy now not knowing what it is."

I dared to smile, and rather sorely tempted him to as well. He kept his impulse to a twitch at the corners of his dark lips though, and I knew as quickly and simply as that that the apology was over and I had been forgiven.

It felt strange, as if perhaps it was too easy, as if it had been planned out. As if I had rehearsed this, or known exactly what I had to do, even though I hadn't.

My apprehension had been a waste of time though, something I knew for certain, and standing in front of Travis now, trying desperately to conceal a sudden shyness, I shrugged.

"Want to go to the mess hall and talk over breakfast then? Tell me the big news there?"

Finally Travis smiled, or more smirked. "Are you going to suddenly cancel on me before I agree?"

I mockingly gasped and then throwing a smile onto my face shoved him playfully.

"No... but I will race you."

And with that I was off, tearing forward towards the turbo lift, he only seconds behind at my heel. I had never intentionally flirted before, not in a long time anyway. To say it wasn't fun would have been a grave understatement to the fit of laughter I broke down into once in the turbo lift with Travis as we went to breakfast together and classed it as our first ever real date.

. . . . . . .

_-Earlier That Day-_

With a bolt and a fright she sat up, heart pounding, lips dry and brow hot. A tremor ran through her taut muscles and olive skin and she felt a flipping and churning in the deep crevices of her stomach. The air tasted stale on the quivering tip of her tongue and the shadows seemed to sit there and mock her as she almost shied away from them with a startled frown.

The emotion of fear was not something she was naïve to, and never before something she had appreciated such as she could with some human emotions. But this was not quite the same as fear, more a light-hearted passing of the sentiment, simply a mild and cruel shock in reality. Nonetheless it was unpleasant to have to bear as she quickly forced the steadying of her rushing heart before she slowly and carefully eased back down into bed.

The apartment was cool and calm, thus her environment had no reason to be blamed for her sudden awakening from an already unsettled sleep. Beyond the little glazed window of her bedroom the streets were all but empty, save the crows and cats that commonly littered the territory at night. Even the air itself had lain down to a peaceful sleep tonight. Everything but she herself was serene and settled.

It was four o'clock on a very early Sunday morning. T'Pol was vaguely aware of this and no more. She was unsure of the exact date, and her half-asleep mind could not find any logical prompt strong enough to make itself want to figure it out right at this present moment. She could feel the ignorance of a dreamless sleep creeping forth again, and welcomed it, until once again she sat up in a sharp and fast bolt of fright.

September 6th 2158. That was the date. And yet the last date she had been consciously aware of was September 9th 2158.

There was no denying it however. That was what the wall clock said, just at the bottom left corner of the slight blue sheen of the screen that caught the trickles of moonlight flirting in through the curtains. And the clock, being linked to the main control tower of timekeeping in London, could not possibly be wrong. Neither, she finally realised, could her returning memory.

It was blatantly clear now, oh yes. She remembered all too well what had happened; captured on Yulae's ship, interrogated about a matter she couldn't have hoped to have known about, killed by the Klingon's hammer and then as fast as she could register the blaring fact that she was dead she had been in the year 2264 with Daniels, and then later Jonathan.

The mistakes, the tampering of the timeline, the judge, her trial; all factors which they were now to help fall in to place to make the future work as it should again.

She felt the unfamiliar tang of a headache dawning, fuelled on by the even less familiar feelings of confusion and bewilderment; confusion because in her gut she knew this was too surreal to be logical, and bewilderment because it was a lot, if not too much, to input and process in no less than minus three days.

Thus why she threw off the blankets from her overheated body, placed her feet tenderly down on the cool carpet of the floor below and headed out to the living room.

Out here it was cooler still, and darker so, but there was a feeling of familiarity that brought forth a much-needed splash of comfort and ease.

She glanced over to her right. There hung the set of eerie silver blue drapes that were to captivate her curiosity enough tomorrow that she would go over to them at about this time in the morning, open them wide and find a balcony in which to step out onto with a slightly wary Jonathan and a content Porthos fifteen minutes later.

She felt temptation to go over and do what had not yet been done, to see if she couldn't awake him again and speak with him to gain much needed clarity. For although she continued to tell herself these were events that had already happened, but then were still yet to, she was far from convinced by herself.

She decided in the end against the action and continued out her original plan, to simply enter into his bedroom and wake him there to speak.

For many long, cold minutes after she had decided this, T'Pol stood at his bedroom door hardly daring to make a move. It was closed all the way and utterly silent inside, save one gentle, constant noise that she took to be his light snoring.

She could barely move and didn't have a reason why not. Again a heat across her brow and drought across her lips began to make her heart pound and muscles tense.

For a moment she was reliving the auditorium where they had watched the screens, clueless together as to why so many people where there and what they were waiting for. For a moment she remembered the silent, safe moment they had finally been able to share, just before it was interrupted by the answer to their queries, which had arrived on screen, and suddenly she felt an electric jolt run down her spine.

Then, chiding herself and shaking off the illogical apprehension, she put a hand to the door handle and opened.

He hardly moved, hardly seemed disturbed at all even as she made the hinges creek slightly and snapped the catch in door down again. Her foot stepped gingerly upon a stiff plank of wooden lino and there was a quiet moan from underneath her sole, but he simply scratched his nose upon hearing it and settled quickly down again.

Porthos, however, was up in a flicker of his four paws. His eyes alight and eager he jumped onto the end of the bed and with his tail running at impossible speeds he drew breath to bark in delight at his new companion. She lunged forward and grabbed his muzzle carefully, quickly sweeping a hand behind his head to pat him gently, instantly contenting him into silence.

She suddenly wondered why she had hushed the somewhat likeable dog. She would have to wake Jonathan up anyway, so why not have the dog do it?

She was undeniably nervous, but she was far from humble enough to admit it.

Perching herself very carefully on the edge at the end of his generously sized double bed, rather reluctantly T'Pol allowed his little beagle to climb over her thighs until he had settled himself quite happily between her knees, resting his chin on one before he heaved a sigh and lay still to allow her to carry on stroking him into silence.

Things stayed as such for a while, T'Pol carefully watching the digital clock on the bedside cabinet as the numbers morphed from one to another until it read that it was almost half past four and she found her legs had gone numb from the cold and the position in which she perched. Unable to restrain the urge to make herself more comfortable she moved further back along the end edge and as her knees rose to stretch Porthos sniffed and then whined in a pathetic protest. In an amazingly quick moment Jonathan was up and arguably awake on that small noise.

"Wha- Portho... T'Pol?"

As quick as he managed to mumble her name and sit up frowning, she stood up and moved away from the bed, standing both guiltily and meekly (he thought, although it was hard to tell in the grey darkness) at the door, waiting to see what enraged reaction he would dish upon her for watching him in such a vulnerable position. Certainly if the roles had been reversed she would not have appreciated his company as she slept at twenty-nine minutes to five in the morning.

For an achingly long moment there was a silence between them, one that echoed accusingly through the Vulcan's weak sense of human morality. Jonathan simply gazed at one bottom corner of his bed and continued to frown. Then finally, his eyes alight with doubting clarity and unease he looked up.

"It all happened, didn't it?"

Something akin to relief struck across T'Pol's face, but he continued to frown upon her with the speedy return of his memory, of which he trusted his significantly more than T'Pol did hers.

"You being caught by the Andorians, us going after them in Columbia, me coming aboard their ship, then Dulac, then..."

The last piece of his memory before Daniels slipped into place and he jumped from bed almost frightened, taking two neat long strides up to T'Pol who watched him with a mutual realisation as he protectively placed his hands upon her shoulders. He towered over her, easily overshadowing her entire lithe figure, although as ever she looked far from petite even beside him, and stood as confidently as she did confused with trembling, cold skin. He drew a deep, almost terrified breath and she quipped a brow.

"Yes, I believe it all did."

And with that she had nothing else to say. The firm but gentle grip he laid upon her shoulders stiffened for a brief moment, and she felt a rough tenderness that was reluctant to let go through fear of... something. Perhaps loss, she figured.

"And Daniels?"

She nodded quietly, finally finding herself able to take everything in stride with the level head her people were famed for having.

"And now?"

She looked back at the beagle calendar on his wall and nodded in its direction to prompt him to take a look at it. He did, then frowned, then slowly began to calm the wild confusion in his eyes as he took on the same acceptant frame of mind as her, everything making some strange, muddled sense now.

"Three and a half hours until your trial."

She did not nod this time, to save appearing as if she were patronising him. He finally understood for himself and seemed happier with the odd reality that was three days before - September 6th - again.

"I came in here to see if you had remembered what had happened, to help clarify the truth. Now that you have I will apologise for waking you and see you in a few hours. Goodnight."

For a second it looked as if he were about to let her go, as he stood with a sad glaze in his eyes and watched her turn with some unstable meekness which she tried so viciously to hide. Then just as she went to open the door with its old-fashioned door handle, he took her shoulder again and as assertively but respectfully as he could, turned her round.

"Wait, look..."

Something flickered into her neutral expression, something sad and tried that reflected all too well the past week and minus three days they had just been made to endure. Suddenly again he saw the Vulcan which he felt responsible for turning against her own people, and having her so hated by even her own family. He remembered again that she wasn't human, and recalled the terrible amount of times he had treated her assumingly and patronisingly as so.

He wondered, as he often did, why she was still here with him, and more harrowingly why she had been willing enough to go before the hammer that he still felt in all right should have struck him, whether now it mattered or not that it had happened as it had.

He smiled weakly in a sudden moment and took her unnaturally cold wrist in his large, rough hand.

"Sit, a minute. We need to talk."

Guiding her over to his bed he sat in the middle at the edge and beckoned for her to join him, of which hesitantly she eventually did.

"About what?"

Carefully he shook his head, smiling all the same with a genuine look of relief and ease now creeping into his own worn eyes.

"T'Pol. We've been through more bull this week than we would probably ever go through on an average _month_ aboard Enterprise."

She quipped a brow.

"Okay, so I exaggerate. But for what was supposed to be a week of R&R before I went back to Starfleet and you... probably to Vulcan, it didn't turn out too well, did it? And you got the brunt of it, I'd say."

She had little to argue there...

"It's... still been one hell of a week though, with you. And although I can't vouch for you, if taken back to that party again and given the chance to uninvited you to my apartment, I'd have to say I couldn't. Maybe be a little more wary of the commencing week, but there's no way I wouldn't spend half the night, if not all of it, convincing you to join me to stay again. I probably couldn't face the apartment alone, or at least not without knowing I had the opportunity, again... to take you home with me."

She listened carefully to his words, reading between the awkwardness to see the true message he was trying and failing miserably to say. Many said she had an ear for doing this. With a quivering tongue laced with very humanlike apprehension she then answered back.

"I... agree."

Her brow sat high suddenly in self-confession and realisation to the truth as she thought over to herself how very much she too would be willing to do it all again - with a little more careful commencing, she agreed also.

Together their gazes sat on the floor below, both shy and both desperate to carry on talking despite how long they played on hesitation. Again Jonathan took the first brave words, with a slight frown as he pressed his palms into his knees and thought as he spoke.

"Do you remember, a few years back and a little after the Expanse, the day I confronted Trip... about-"

"Yes, I do. In the mess hall, you ended up in a fight with him, one I broke up."

With a guilty nod he confirmed her to be right.

"Yeah, then. T'Pol... do you know _why..._ I acted like that?"

Only Porthos broke the long-suffering silence that followed the question by jumping onto the bed and settling himself amongst the unkempt sheets. T'Pol turned unsettlingly still and uncomfortable, almost distressed even.

Going beyond every timid instinct that screamed and begged and pleaded for him not to take it any further, Jonathan raised a hand to her cheek and stroked across it lightly.

"So you do know..."

Carefully she nodded.

"And you never said..."

When at last she drew the breath to speak she spoke a quiet, shaken tongue again.

"I believed the feels to be...'on and off', as I once overheard Trip say I. I was unsure of what to do, with knowing..." She trailed off.

"T'Pol..."

Adding to the constant bombardment of jerky hesitations in the conversation he took his hand to his chin and rubbed the prickly stubble that rested there wearily, as if already beginning to exhaust himself from the struggle to say what he wanted to say without directly saying what he felt for her. Finally though, with a shaken sigh, he got on with it.

"Am I wasting my time, with you, or is there any chance you could feel the same way?"

It was asked so suddenly there and then, finally, as he took the Band-Aid approach, that she could not help but feel herself lapsing into a somewhat stunned silence. She disliked being thrown, but felt she deserved it for avoiding confrontation of this after all these years, until now.

"T'Pol?"

She had been quiet for close to a five minute period, and grew increasingly pale and lost looking. As she faintly heard the calling of her name she raised her gaze to him again and he saw a bafflement he believed no other Vulcan, no matter how much of an emotional human they came across, could or ever would match.

"I--"

He didn't want to hear the answer, then, he decided. He didn't like the odds that the answer would sting until he keeled. So he leant forward cupping her fine line chin in one hand and dared, finally, after so many years of waiting for the 'right moment', to kiss her.

Falling back onto the bed together, never once did either dare to consider or doubt this was anything but the right and long anticipated thing to do. They were trapped in that great clique love, and they knew it.

. . . . . . .

Hoshi prized her perfect hearing, if anything because her career depended and thrived on it. Never did she listen to loud music, nor even let the engines of a car rev up when she was in either driver or passenger position. Hardly ever did she shout, or provoke people to shout at her. Televisions stayed low and she was never particularly a fan of boisterous children. It could only be noticed if one was good at picking up the subtle signs, but above all other aspects of her body, Hoshi looked after her hearing, and looked after it well.

"Travis, I don't think this was a very good idea!"

She hardly even noticed she was shouting to the point where her throat could easily cave as she tried to rise above the mess of noise around them. Isle after isle of concrete path that divided up row after row of steel mesh cages that penned up hundreds upon hundreds of eager, loud spoken dogs meant there was no escape from the chaotic soundtrack of the kennels around them. Hoshi and her eardrums were distressed beyond reckoning.

They had not yet walked past a dog, big or small, mongrel or pedigree, girl or boy who did not thunder towards them in their small cubical runs to greet them with yelps and barks and even the occasional deep growl. There wasn't a quiet relief in sight and Hoshi began to doubt her reasoning for ever wanting a dog.

"I think Porthos is a one off!" she continued to shout, as she had no choice trailing behind Travis who had become somewhat deaf. Deaf and also far more eager than her now to go pet-hunting. "I don't think there's another quiet dog in San Francisco except him!"

By curious coincidence they passed a beagle in his run. He was no less quiet than the booming presence of the Great Dane/Dalmatian cross in the hold next to him. Hoshi felt no urge whatsoever to approach him, despite his puppyish watery brown gaze and lolling tongue that made his maw appear in a half-smile. Travis however laughed as he pointed out the little message that went with the dog, turning back to Hoshi to make sure she saw it too.

His name was Porthos. He had been named after the legendary beagle himself.

Itching to cover her ears and move on Hoshi gave Travis a nudge with her elbow as she pressed her palms to her ears.

"How about we get a cat?"

He frowned. "Hoshi, where are we going to get a bat?"

She gave him a dark, non-amused smile before moving on again.

Turning a 360degree angle Travis began to traipse on down the last row of cages which were no less quiet than the thirty or so they had already waded through. Hoshi had clearly lost hope, stopping at the bumpy starting edge of the new concrete path and remaining there.

"Travis, can we go yet? I want a cat!"

He shrugged to show that he couldn't hear her and continued moving down the last fifteen or so dogs on display, still content to be looking.

It was in the third to last cage that he found her.

Hoshi continued to watch from the mouth of the pathway, head tilted as she watched Travis stop suddenly and take great interest in that third to last cage down. Enough interest even that he walked up to the mesh barrier and knelt down, offering his hand to a wet, black nose, which sniffed warily. With his other hand he quickly waved over Hoshi, eyes alight and excited. With a sigh and a slouching of her shoulders, ever reluctant she did anyway.

"What is--"

Quite rightly as she came up behind Travis and sighted what he had, she stopped shouting and moaning looked on with a melting heart.

All black, not a trace of another colour on her save the auburn rings that trimmed her lonely pupils and pink soles of her paws, Hoshi looked upon an English Cocker Spaniel with an utterly silent temperament and a curious gaze. For Travis, as he looked back and then moved to the side to let Hoshi though, he felt it was safe enough to say they had just found Hoshi's new companion.

"Name's Angel."

He stood and read the little strip of cardboard pinned to her run.

"Female, four years old, little known background, sweet, laid back temperament with no known bark. Hoshi, sounds like your dog."

She turned round, already totally devoted as the Spaniel lifted a paw to try and reach out for a scratch.

"What?"

Travis smiled, shaking his head as he was finding himself as devoted to the woman at his feet as the woman was to the dog whose tongue was at her fingers.

"I'll go get a kennel hand to see if we can take her a walk."

"What?"

"I--" Travis jumped as a kennel hand approached from behind, her smile as wide as Hoshi's growing affection for the dog.

"So, we finally have a little interest in Angel."

Hoshi frowned. "Pardon?"

Pulling a set of keys from her belt and a leash from her pocket the assistant held them up questioning through signal if Hoshi wanted the dog out, to which she nodded an eager yes. In response, the colourful blue leash captivating the Spaniel's hope, her stumpy excuse for a tail waving back and forth quickly, her tongue lolling and her maw smiling.

Travis stood back, arms crossed and smile in place as he watched owner and pet meet and bond for the first time. He had absolutely no doubt now they would be leaving with that dog, and he just had to remind his mother to remind his brother to stock up high on anti-allergy tablets.

Yes, life on the Horizon with Hoshi and Angel would be a life he had never expected and one he would never dare trade for now.

Only the message waiting for him on his Communicator on his belt, which went unheard in the racket they bared that morning, begged to differ.

. . . . . . .

Perfection is a funny word. Namely because it has been argued for so long that it is a word that describes nothing, as nothing is 'perfect'. No face, no voice, no piece of art, no sheet of writing, no score of music, no line or circle. No creation, no moral, no theory, no muse is ever perfect. Never has been, and no matter what tweaks are applied, never will be. Faults shadow everything; haunt every self-proclaimed writer, every freelance artist, every businessman, teacher, preacher, religion and general soul. Some would even say every moment in life, no matter what bliss shrouds it, always has some dark mark following it.

Jonathan would have died that morning arguing that perfection can exist.

A warmth pulsated through his entire body that made his throat tingle and his eyes water. Every muscle was worn and relaxed, every bone slack, every inch of skin glowing.

He had never seen a sky born into such a shade of luxurious blue before, never seen an autumn sun shine with such spectacular effort. Never heard the birds sing so tunefully, never seen the shade of white on his walls shimmer with such a graceful silvery tinge.

He had never before held a body so preciously close to him with such a fierce protection, and never felt such joy to be sharing an average September morning with anyone like this. His bedroom had become a utopia with the vibes of perfection they set off which cracked their way into every corner and across every dusty shelf.

He never wanted to disjoint from her. If told he would have to stay here like this for the rest of his life to follow, he knew he would die a happy man. She slept away, slightly curled into herself with the arch of her back pressed into his bare chest. She was so warm she very nearly radiated with her natural body heat. Her hands sat just under her chin, her mouth slightly ajar and her fingers slightly bent and tangled into each other. He carefully slipped one arm under hers and took her left hand in his right. She barely stirred.

Battling with his blurry hazel eyes he forced himself to look at the clock on his beside table almost against his own will. They were late for the trial, late being a slight understatement. At quarter to eleven, it was unlikely they would make it to Sausalito in fifteen minutes from now. Jonathan sighed and ignored the time, going back to drinking in the golden warmth of the moment.

The Communicator that sat beside the clock sprung to life in cruel, short bursts of infuriating noise. He jumped and T'Pol jerked awake underneath his arm. With hazy vision she followed his outstretched arm as he grabbed the silver device, but her gaze stopped as it fell upon the clock and her lids widened.

"Yes?"

Jonathan wasn't much in the mood for making an effort to be polite to his morning caller.

"Jon, we're all waiting for both you to make an appearance, if you wouldn't mind doing so any time soon. The Vulcans are getting edgy."

"The Vulcan's are always edgy Admiral."

T'Pol threw him a look, to which he shrugged an apology.

"Where are you? Tell me you're on your way at least."

The Captain's guilty silence told the Admiral everything he needed to know.

"Fine, I'll tell them there's been a hold up on the roads. Just get down here as soon as you can, if you actually want to see T'Pol as your continuing First Officer that is."

Jonathan could tell it wasn't only the Vulcan on edge. He smiled slightly to himself.

"Yes sir. I apologise. We'll be leaving a.s.a.p."

On that he hung up and eased back into bed, muttering complaints to himself as he pulled the duvet up from their knees. T'Pol resisted temptation however and sat up, Jonathan's borrowed T-shirt drowning her slight figure as she hung her legs over the edge of the bed, preparing to get up.

"We really must go now."

He closed his eyes to brace a deep sigh into his lungs before opening up his vision to her brilliant figure again, smiling slightly.

"Perhaps we should dress first."

She quipped a brow as he grinned. "Of course..." There was a look in his eyes and an edge to his smile that she felt she should be wary of. Indeed she was right.

He sat up and carefully but quickly grabbed for her waist with enough strength to pull her to him, forcing her to lie back in bed with him as he fell down onto his side again.

"We already know what the sentence is going to be now. Maybe it was destined we be a couple of hours late. Thus us being late assures that this Captain Kirk is born one-hundred and six years later."

She was far from convinced, but more than tempted to 'play along' with the idea. Settling back into his hold she felt the warmth that their bodies shared coaxing her to close her eyes and enjoy the morning and its freshness for the one more hour it would be here. As he felt her relaxing in his arms he buried his nose into the thicketed of her hair and smiled.

Things would have felt like they were moving far too fast, if not for he realised he had been pining for this a lot longer than just during the past week. Turning against his own best friend, putting his ship in jeopardy, postponing missions, smashing protocol, fighting tooth and nail with the High Command, with Starfleet even for the past seven years; all things he had done in sake of her, because he had always subconsciously cared for her more than he would ever have admitted, up until less than even a week ago.

"Jonathan?"

He pulled himself out of his thoughtful daze and looked down at her forehead.

"Yeah?"

"We really must get ready to leave."

Feeling her waist slip away from his hold he sighed heavily and felt defeat looming.

"Yeah..."

She bent down and gave him a gentle kiss on the lips. "I apologise for being so edgy."

He smiled and shook his head as she made her way out and into the other bedroom where her collection of formal robes lived.

She was the most perfect decision he had ever made, and he truly would die defending that.

. . . . . . .

Trip and Malcolm poured over the messages sent through their Communicators. Each glowed in a delighted shock.

"They want Enterprise to carry on in another mission."

Trip threw his buddy a smile from the corner of his mouth.

"Ah know that Malcolm. Ah got sent the exact same message here as you."

"They're holding a meeting for the senior crew at sixteen hundred hours today."

"Malcolm..."

"What do you reckon it is that's so important they couldn't send Columbia's crew out to do it?"

Trip shrugged, eventually getting up from sitting at the edge of the railings that hung over the main Engineering room, leaving Malcolm to swing his legs back and forth slowly on his own as the occasional Ensign walked by underneath him with a curious gaze up.

"Ah've got no idea but ah think ah'll start shinin' ma boots for this meetin'."

As he grinned on Malcolm stood up with him, sharing the idea.

"Think Hoshi will be up for giving us one of her famous five minute cuts?"

He tentatively ran his fingers through his well kempt golden streaked mousy brown hair.

"If she ever comes back with Travis from that pound then maybe, yeah."

Trip too was now subconsciously pawing through his slightly longer than usual cut of dull blond, before he suddenly spotted and then stopped another officer about to pass underneath the railing.

"Hey, Kallie!"

Malcolm jumped as Trip leant over the railings and shouted down to a young Lieutenant, an inspiring Engineer who was tipped to be Head Engineer on Columbia if a one Commander Martin Cullen's physical did not check through. Guiltily Trip felt himself rooting for that twist of fate to happen, having great faith and admiration for the woman's skills, which easily matched his own when he was at that age.

"Yes Commander?"

Malcolm sighted the fresh faced twenty-something peering up in answering her superior's call, almost with hope as if wishing he had the news on Cullen she wanted so desperately to hear.

"Can ya supervise the core realignments for me this afternoon? Duty calls somewhere else ah'm afraid."

Hardly looking downhearted at all over the false alarm she nodded and smiled and saluted. "Yes sir."

He beamed. "Thanks, ah owe ye."

"And I'll keep you to that."

Trip turned back to Malcolm, dusting his hands off. "Well, Lieutenant, duty calls. Why don't you give Hoshi a call for us?"

Walking off from there it seemed to Malcolm he had no choice in the matter.

"I really missed taking orders off of you Commander, you know that?"

. . . . . . .

Two lone Ambassadors stood outside the auditorium, side-by-side, solemn faced and tensely muscled. Those whom they were waiting upon were now no less than two and a half spectacular hours late, something that impressed no one involved in this caper.

The eldest of the two Ambassadors, by only a decade or so, turned to the younger with a heavy sigh, his murky grey gaze looking on at the door they stood by, longing to go in and disappear within the audience. For the last time he ran over his protocol.

"Remember Soval, she is to return back to Vulcan, there is no leeway about that. Here she is a menace, she is in the company of those she is begin to become too much like, there is too much influence, and if she is to run amok anymore than she is sure to have others following her example in time. The last thing we want is another V'Lar staining the race."

Soval nodded briefly, almost wearily. "I understand Taron. Now I suggest you take your place inside in the event that your daughter _does _actually decide to show."

As he emphasised a tiresome 'does' that was exactly what happened; the grand front entrance to the Compound opened and two of the predominant banes of his life sauntered in, as if already being two hours later affected their need to rush in no way whatsoever.

As Soval turned to usher Taron on he discovered the powerful Ambassador was already gone, and so with a rare sigh he turned back to watch two quietly confident individuals make their way to the lift and up to the Ranking Conference room. Soval allowed a shiver of distaste to poison his calm facade before he straightened up and faced the opening to the lift not more than fifty meters down a perfectly moulded grey hallway.

"Captain Archer, I do not remember stating that your presence was required at this hearing."

They were not two steps out the elevator when Soval addressed the neatly presented Captain with something uncannily like a smirk in his tone. Jonathan returned the remark with an all too knowing smile.

"No, you didn't state, she did."

Soval tilted his head in something parallel to a frown as T'Pol stepped before Jonathan.

"Oh?"

Her brow flashed up and down in a brief second and Soval looked on almost aghast at witnessing the very humanlike gesture.

"He has every right to act as a witness Soval. You understand that right cannot be denied or we have case enough to appeal against this whole trial."

T'Pol turned briefly back to Jonathan and they shared an edgy look, as if all too keen to carry on with the ordeal, all too keen to see themselves victorious. All too cocky, Soval thought with a sneer. This case had been resolved months ago. She would be seeing her homeland far faster than anyone could stop it.

"You are two and a half hours late. This will not bode well with the judge."

T'Pol nodded. "I know." She then extended a polite robe laden arm for him to step forward before her. "Ambassador."

After holding a hesitant look on her, Soval went forth and the Captain and the rogue Vulcan followed on behind together into the blue tinted auditorium, all three with quietly confident hopes.

Silence. That was what shook the room as she stepped in, Soval and Jonathan promptly ignored as grey and brown Vulcan eyes alike pierced hard into her disgraced figure. Some felt their fingers trembling in shame that she had to be known as one of their own, others found they could not even bring themselves to look as such a bold, repulsive figure. Emotion and spirit without restraint leaked in gushes from her weak self-control, and her tattered ears, which, with her hair pulled up again, were on full show, were now a famous symbol of her dismissed heritage.

Everything, the regal silence included, was as it had been first time round, T'Pol noted, from where her father and Admiral Forrest sat to where Jonathan chose to be seated to the ten high-ranking High Command Respectfuls acting as a jury. All as it was, except for one other individual.

The judge came out as T'Pol took her place. Ashen faced and quivering slightly in his fingertips it was clear to see his entire life and teachings he held dear had been twisted amok by the presence of Daniels' supposed partner Alex last night. He was now one of only two Vulcans in their race to be shown the solid, harsh truth that time travel was indeed possible. How, scientifically, T'Pol herself still could not formulate, but she had been given proof enough through act to convince her it could be done.

It seemed the judge was barely, but just enough, convinced so that when he shared a look with T'Pol it was a reluctantly knowing one, and T'Pol saw finally that everything would turn out just as Daniels had promised.

The Vulcan at the door with his PADD confirmed the nature of the trial and the judge, the archaic strength in his voice diluted somewhat, reiterated what T'Pol was regulated to understand. Then he asked the standard question.

"And do you wish to return to the High Command with your former ranking position as Sub Commander?"

Where once she hesitated T'Pol now looked on with defining certainty, piercing a rebellious gaze into her father and shaking her head once.

"No."

Amidst the tight gasp the room seemed to take in as a whole, the sprinkling of sharp tension and the looks passed from one rule-abiding Vulcan to the other, T'Pol handed over her resignation and the judge confirmed it.

Jonathan sat back in his chair, left ankle up on the opposing thigh and his arms crossed, keeping restraint not to leap forward this time with his impulsive nature. He hoped this time there would be no need for that.

To his far right Forrest stood up.

"If it so pleases the hearing and the accused, we would like to make an appeal that T'Pol be given permission to take up post with Starfleet instead, resuming work as First Officer under the rule of Captain Archer on the starship Enterprise NX-01 for recent future missions."

Maxwell quickly threw Jonathan a look, and with good reason. Daniels had mentioned to Jonathan that he would get his ship back, that part of last night's escapade he remembered well, but it made the Captain's muscles twitch and his heart pound no less excitedly to actually hear it. The look ordered that he keep himself controlled and quiet and that they would talk about this later. T'Pol remained passive.

The judge gave Forrest a respectful nod, ignoring with a return of colour to his face now, the urgent fidgeting of the former Sub Commander's father, who sat impatiently at the back.

"Then your sentence is thus: You are no longer recognised by the High Command as a member in their ranks,"

Jonathan's leant forward impatiently,

"and are instead bound by duty to Earth until it is ordered by your new superiors in Starfleet that you can leave, for any scheduled mission or otherwise. Session dismissed."

And as quick and effortlessly as that, for the second time round it was over.

Despite how much protest this rule would most likely receive on a later date, the Vulcans present for now began to imminently stand up and leave, as if almost happy just to abandon things as they were and return to whatever work or task had been put on hold for this. T'Pol wasn't going to stop any of them.

Stepping off the podium she shared one last suffering look with the still bewildered judge. A simple nod was all he needed to tell him though that she was eternally grateful and, despite the logical instincts that screamed murder to him now, he had done the right thing. She then left to seek out Jonathan who stood eager and hopeful beside his Admiral. She never managed to reach as far as that however, first time round.

"If you believe bribing a judge means the end of this T'Pol, I am afraid you are terribly mistaken."

A powerful grip wrapped itself around her forearm, biting harder as she struggled in a knee-jerk protest.

"There was no bribe involved in this Taron."

Neither looked the other in the eye, only stared with an odd burning hatred over the others shoulder, their lips barely moving as they spoke in rough, assertive tones. Jonathan had not noticed. The promise of his ship back was too captivating to distract him from the proposal Forrest was spelling out now, the exact one Daniels had already filled them in on.

"Bribes, threats, promises; whatever the cause for his turn was I will it find out, and I will make sure you run amok and disgrace your family no more."

T'Pol scowled. "When last I checked, I saw no shame in my mother's eyes."

The father sniffed. "Perhaps you should look harder when next you come across her."

"Well that will be no time soon, for as I'm sure you've heard I'm due on another assignment aboard Enterprise."

"That Captain will be your ultimate downfall."

"And if by downfall you mean freedom from an overruled life, then he already has been."

With that she pulled her arm from his crushing grip and heeded he and his threats no more.

It was by now that Jonathan noticed the silent confrontation. She prepared herself to ease his worried glance as he watched Taron take leave with a frown.

"It was simply my father, offering some departing words before I left."

Jonathan watched as she smoothed out her opulent bronze sleeve, as ever far from convinced.

"And what's the bet I'll enjoy his company as he follows our asses through space just as much as I have done Soval's."

She pleaded him a look and he sighed.

"Sorry. I'll be civil."

She pleaded him another look.

"I will!"

"T'Pol." Forrest came between them, smile wide and eyes anticipating. "Finally, we truly get to call you one of our own now."

T'Pol nodded slightly. "I appreciate what you have done to allow this situation to happen."

He held out a hand for her to take. "Not as much as I'm sure we'll appreciate whatever you'll do for us in return."

With simple courtesy she took the hand and shook it briefly, no more keen to make physical contact with most than she ever had been before. A handshake she felt though was the least of what she owed he and his people.

"Now, we have escorts waiting to take us back to Starfleet and a mission to fill the crew in on I believe."

Jonathan and T'Pol managed a swift shared glance, and in the second she flickered her gaze to him, he believed he saw her smile the most beautiful and subtle of smile.

"Come on Captain," the smile could not be taken from Forrest's own expression, "I have a crew to reunite you with."


	18. The Captain And The Vulcan

_-Three Years Ago-_

His shoulders sat hunched to the bitter cold shadows of his room. His eyes were cast down, buried into his jeans, his numb wrists draped over his tense knees. He took shallow, thoughtless breaths, forcing his head to feel light, forcing back the shameful tears of a disgraceful Captain.

In a far corner his beloved dog laid quietly down, eyes diverted to the floor in front of him, his tail wrapped tightly around his shivering torso. The Captain had never hit his dog before, and now the little beagle was terrified of him.

"Porthos?"

He tested his luck yet again, daring to bring his gaze down to the corner, trying desperately to coax the dog back to his side. He could not be moved.

Quickly his damp hazel gaze dropped to the floor between his feet again and he heaved himself back into a depression.

A smattering of blood still covered his knuckles and had strayed onto his heavy boots, spat on there from the very mouth he had punched. It had been over in no more than ten, perhaps fifteen minutes, and yet each time that he played it back in his mind, it stretched as long as half an hour, even forty five minutes.

He had watched himself punch the Commander three times now, and watched three times from the corner of his eyes the genuine naked horror on his First Officer's face. He was not sure what stung deeper, the hurt and realisation on the golden face of Trip's, or the shameless revealing of human emotion on hers.

He knew one thing for certain; he would be relieved for this. No more than he deserved, he chided himself until he began to feel a fresh wave of hot, sour tears sting the back of his downcast eyes.

Suddenly his comm. beeped from the door of his room. He looked up at it blankly and then ignored it. He remembered he had a lunch date with Lieutenant Reed, but he was hardly hungry anymore, nor in the mood to give an explanation as to why he had not turned up.

"Sir?"

He looked up again, not so blankly anymore as Sub Commander T'Pol's voice drifted in quietly through the comm. vent.

"Sir please, let me in."

Porthos lifted his own head and then sat up eagerly, desperate to run from the corner, but afraid of what reaction he might provoke from the man on the bed in doing so. The Captain tried to ignore him, but it pained him nonetheless.

He peeled himself off the bed slowly and leant heavily against the wall as he pushed into the comm.

"Not a good time right now T'Pol."

His voice was gruff and choked, a clear indication to her that he had been crying, as much as he had tried to force down the tears.

"Jonathan."

He felt himself startled slightly. Her tone was beyond anything he thought Vulcans were capable of. It was deep and sharp and clear in saying that she would break through the door if that was what it took to see him. To hear her rhyme off his actually name too, something she had been refusing to do for three years now, made him look twice at the comm.

"Commander Tucker is in sickbay having the side of his tongue melded back together. I would like to know why you caused him such damage."

He took his finger off the comm. having no intention of answering her, despite that tone.

"I would prefer it if I was not forced to send you to the brig and contact Admiral Forrest."

He pressed the comm. this time, feeling complied to answer _this_ audacious comment.

"I'd like to see you try that one Sub Commander."

From the other side there was silence before she decided to post an idol threat.

"I hold twice the strength of any man on this ship. Unfortunately, taking you out would not be such a strenuous task."

"And the door?"

"I have tackled a door before."

With knowing what he had to say next, he knew now he was just deliberately aggravating an already taut situation.

"Weren't you in Pon farr then?"

She choked slightly on her next breath. She did not know he knew that.

"Sir, that is beyond the point. Open this door and talk to me."

Archer leant heavier on the wall.

"We're talking now aren't we? What's a door between a conversation, eh?"

He could almost see her face overwhelmed by his true idiocy at the moment. He could almost hear her teeth grinding and fists curling.

"Sir, what possessed you to take out one of your own senior crew in the mess hall?"

Now she was beginning to ask the difficult questions. He didn't choose to answer straight away.

"Without a plausible explanation I am going to have to report this. A volatile Captain is too much of a risk to keep aboard."

"And as a self-appointed First Officer you think you have the right to sabotage this mission and my career by reporting one mistake made on my behalf?"

As ever she persisted onward.

"Sir, right now this looks to be a case of mutiny, and I will have to report it as such unless I am given a reason not to."

A hot flush rose from his thundering heart, colouring his cheeks an angry red. He punched down hard on the lock on his door and opened it, coming within inches of T'Pol's cool face as he stepped out of his quarters.

"T'Pol, I don't give a damn what you do anymore. Whatever floats your boat in your free time, then do it. If reporting me for one mistake is what it takes, then do it; if rolling about in the bed sheets with Trip is what it takes, so be it. Just don't flog it to the rest of the crew so it ends up waved under my nose by a passing Ensign. You mean nothing to me, and I'm sure as hell glad I'm not Trip right now."

She tilted her head back slightly to bring her gaze up to his, and was utterly silent as he went on in a haphazard rant.

"Throw me in the brig and report me to Forrest if that's really an itch too deep not to scratch, but you should know that split tongues wont be near your worst of your problem when I get out and come looking for you. Do you understand?"

It was an idol threat of his own, but a ferocious, highly hateful one all the same. She nodded.

"Yes Sir."

He growled. "So get out of my sight before I do something I'll really regret."

The man before her was not the man she knew, he was not even a man she had met before. He was a far, awful cry from the Captain who was the reason why she had stayed aboard Enterprise to begin with. He was a vengeful, selfish man… and little she knew a man who felt he had just lost the biggest part of his honest, caring soul.

She nodded once again and turned in the direction towards sickbay.

He leant heavily on the doorframe and almost pleaded for her to stop, to rush an already overdue apology and hope things could be mended as quickly as they had been torn.

She disappeared into the turbo lift and kept her eyes down as the doors closed over. He punched the nearest wall, ignoring the petrified whine of his dog behind him.

Needless to say, Trip and T'Pol decided that what small relationship they had managed to build so far, was not worth the trouble it had already caused for them and their Captain. It was ended that night over one last dinner and some pale-lit candles.

. . . . . . .

"I'm sorry." He stopped suddenly in the halls of Starfleet and grabbed T'Pol's wrist lightly so as she'd do the same. She turned to him as he uttered the words in a regretful murmur and peered into his genuinely apologetic hazel gaze.

"For what?"

He held back a sigh in the back of his throat. "For stopping you and Trip from… continuing on whatever you had."

Realisation clouded her eyes and she suddenly found something else on the floor to focus uncomfortably on. This morning, she understood, must have brought back painful memories. Ironic, she identified.

"You were… not the entire reason why we… dissolved the… relationship, in the end."

Now he knew he was treading on private waters, and wanted to get out of them. But he felt like a hypocrite, for what he had done three years and then what he had done just this morning. He almost felt inclined to offer up his chin to Trip's clenched wrist, when next he saw the Commander.

"We were… finding it difficult, to relate fully with the other's persona. Commander Tucker still bared grudges with my people that sometimes he vented on me, and I found it difficult to understand or accept why he was impulsive on occasions. We eventually decided we would be better as companions for each other, rather than mates. We have not regretted or doubted the decision yet."

Before them Admiral Forrest with a few of his colleagues turned into a room where Jonathan knew his old senior crew were standing and waiting for him to arrive. They had a briefing of their next mission to attend, although Daniels had done for them enough briefing that they most likely knew more than the highest-ranking Admirals of Starfleet did.

Jonathan needed to clean the air though before he entered that room and locked eyes with Trip again.

"You have every right to think this is wrong and to want to drop it now, if that's what would we best."

She met his hazel gaze once more. "Why would I think that?"

Thus the conversation was ended and she went ahead, slipping her wrist from his light grasp and turning to the door where their crew waited eagerly.

"Are you coming?"

A few yards away he stood almost dumfounded by her graceful simplicity, and then allowed his face to break into a small, warm smile. He nodded and they opened the door together.

Silence greeted them, but only for a moment as the crowd within registered the two new faces. Then casual conversation broke out once again.

Archer took a careful look around, more than a little taken aback by what greeted him; his senior crew and then about half of Starfleet and a bus load of Vulcans, who had all accumulated around a table stretching the length of ballroom sized accommodations. Forrest stood at the door with him.

T'Pol focused on the sheer number of Vulcans who had joined them, some even communicating with the Starfleet personnel in what looked like engaged conversation. The atmosphere was electric in the most brilliant way imaginable. An eagerness pulsated through the room, shone in the eyes of the humans and even seemed present in the posture of the Vulcans. There was a sense of accepted unity, and when T'Pol spotted Commander Tucker locked in deep conversation with a young Vulcan female sitting to his right, she knew things had finally changed between their races. It almost made her smile…

"We're still waiting for the Congress of Vulcan Elders to join us, but once they arrive we'll be getting things started. I think you'll like what we have to propose though."

Jonathan gave Forrest a side smile. The Admiral had no idea how much restraint he was pressing on himself. T'Pol did.

"I'm assuming our places are along the top with the rest of the senior crew."

Forrest nodded to her. "Go right ahead and take a seat."

Taking his wrist and his sly smile T'Pol moved the Captain on before things could be said, and jaws dropped. As soon as she was certain he was moving on of his own accord he dropped his arm.

"Sir, I hope you were not going to say anything about last night."

He shook his head vigorously, smiling and nodding to people and Vulcans alike at the table as he passed them.

"No, that would just ruin the surprise for everyone else."

Quickly he slipped in beside Trip and T'Pol moved beside him in the only two seats left near the rest of the well-established senior crew. Across from them were Malcolm and Phlox, whose smiles were as bold and energetic as Jonathan's own.

"Sir." Malcolm nodded in his uniform way, with a hint of juvenile eagerness.

"Captain." Phlox beamed, his smile splitting to his cheekbones.

Jonathan's eyes did a quick take along the table.

"Where are Hoshi and Travis?"

The smiles quietened a little.

"Travis phoned home, was gonna get himself an' Hoshi put on the Horizon before they got the call askin' them if they'd come join the Enterprise crew again. Travis… is sortin' out his loyalties."

Jonathan frowned at what was news to him. T'Pol remained impassive.

"And Hoshi?"

"Hoshi's… doin' the same."

Jonathan caught something then in the Commander's eyes, a smirk, an all too well knowing look. As he finished explaining the missing Ensigns he couldn't help but tweak the corners of his lips into a nudging grin.

"What?"

Trip leant in, hovering at a hair's breath away from the Captain's ear.

"Only was a matter o' time before the Captain an' the Vulcan hit it off, eventually."

The whisper did not get by T'Pol's own sensitive lobes. Trip gave Jonathan an all too well knowing nudge with his elbow.

"Aw don't look too surprised; yer both practically glowin'; _you're _kinda scarin' me."

He gave T'Pol an almost impressed look.

"You'll be meetin' the in-laws next."

"Alright Trip, we get that you know."

Jonathan threw a glance across the table. Malcolm and Phlox were engaged in what looked like an argument for Malcolm and a curious conversation for Phlox. They were as deaf to this, he hoped and prayed and begged, as they looked.

T'Pol remained still impassive. As ever though, there was more behind that calm expression than she would ever let on. And as much as he prided himself that he knew his First Officer as well as Trip did Malcolm, he could not quite place a definite finger on what it was. He thought he sensed a feeling of… unease, but then he tried to convince himself that he was just looking for any answer now.

Jonathan tilted forward slightly. He took in the sight of Trip's new Vulcan companion. Bony, pale, blonde, a haunting blue gaze, barely tipped ears, decked in human attire and jewellery—

"Sir, meet T'Kai. Big fan o' yours. Bein' askin' non-stop about when you'd be arriving. T'Kai, meet Cap'in Archer. First human t' make friends with a Vulcan."

Although not the first to love one.

Hardly skipping a beat Jonathan leant over and extended his hand to the misfit Vulcan, who carefully extended one of her own and wrapped her cold, scarred fingers around his. She smiled shyly and shook.

"An honour Sir."

He bowed slightly and dismissed the Sir.

"Call me Jonathan for now."

She smiled again, still very slightly. "Yes Sir."

He immediately exchanged a small look with his First Officer. He forgot thought that nothing fazed her as she nodded in turn and introduced herself in one flawless gesture.

"An honour again."

There seemed a great inevitability that T'Kai would be serving with them, but neither could say anything about it before the doors to the hall opened again and allowed the last of the meeting's attendants in.

This time the hush that had also greeted the Captain and his First Officer remained, or at least amongst the Vulcans it did. At his side T'Pol went ridged as five elders, four males and a younger female, made their entrance quietly. They took their seats wordlessly with little fuss at the opposite end where two Starfleet Admirals joined them, and Forrest headed the table.

"And that would complete the guest list."

He smiled as he spoke and in an instant he held the attention of the room as the humans fell quiet with the Vulcans. None turned quite so ridged as T'Pol had however.

"Right, well I'm sure no one's quite interested in hearing any jokes and would appreciate it if I got down to the gist of the situation right away, so I will."

He cleared his throat and put on the face of a seasoned Admiral, holding the air of a proud and daring man who had prepared this speech to death, and who was now almost besides himself that he was actually going to say it. No one dared to make a sound.

"We have been exploring now for a worthy seven years. We've taken our hopes and dreams out into the universe on the reality that is Enterprise and her crew. We've made many first contacts for humanity, we've mapped out our own star charts, chartered new terrain and we've broken through new territories. We've engaged in wars, we're lost, we've suffered and we've come out triumphant every time. We've made ourselves a pillar of the universe, and we've made some heck of allies. But, we've also made some enemies. We've upset cultures, we've contaminated pre-Warp societies – we've made some regrettable slip-ups. And now we plan to amend them."

Jonathan weaved his fingers in and out of themselves restlessly. T'Pol tiled her head round slightly and threw him a look. He came to sit at peace.

"I know we've hardly touched on what's out there, and if we're to go any further then we need to learn the balance between exploring and invading. And we also need to form alliances, bonds with the people we have met and befriended, and try and ease the tensions between those we have fought against, as well as those who fight against each other. I propose an establishment that will allow for these things to come about, that will build a stable relationship with our new neighbours, and leave be what we must. We've set ground rules, and a treaty worthy enough of names such as the legendry Dr. Zefram Cochrane and Henry Archer."

For the briefest of moments all eyes were on Jonathan and he smiled modestly.

"My friends and colleagues and to our Vulcan counterparts, I give you the Federation: the Universe united."

It could no longer be contained, the hall broke out into a rash of murmurs, then excited chatter and then human hands were thrown together in an intrigued round of applause as Forrest beamed at his crowd. The Vulcans nodded between themselves, brought things into a conclusion with their own logical light, agreed mutually that this could work and then instantly fell silent as the female elder stood.

The heavy double doors opened. Not a pair of eyes didn't divert to the two slightly crouched figures that tried to creep past the spotlight of attention to no avail. Jonathan smiled widely as he watched Hoshi and Travis throw themselves down into the nearest couple of chairs available, apologising meekly as they settled. The female hardly missed a beat as she drew the attention back onto her and her alone.

Jonathan took her in with great consideration. She barely seemed an elder, really, and he was beginning to doubt if indeed she was, or just an attachment to the four season-faced males who she had followed on in behind with. Certainly she was older than T'Pol, she had a knowledge and maturity in her Vulcan-composure that only came with age and experience. But her gaze was fresh and her skin firm with a healthy glow. Her hair was restricted to a mild mannered bob, cut shorter than most females with a layer to it. It was a dull brown to match the tone of her attentive eyes and she stood neatly as she held her slightly tall figure well; straight but relaxed in a Vulcan sense of the relaxed way. There was something less regal and pompous but more commanding about her that instantly demanded a true earned respect off the captain.

She did not show emotion, naturally, but there was a movement in her lips and a twitch in her eyes that told them she was not like most other Vulcans; she was willing to be here in the company of humans and on the territory of humans. The Vulcans here may have been engaging in conversation with them and as charged as them, but the ease with which she looked upon each man and woman individual was, obviously so, a permanent fixture with the graceful figure which stood before them now. She was enthusiastic to be here, and always would be at any time under most any circumstances.

"Admiral Forrest has just proposed here a concept that cannot go ignored by us Vulcans. We too wish to see peace, of course, and not just between ourselves, but throughout the universe – peace extended to every culture known to us who are willing enough to co-operate. As Surak helped purge our people of our dark past, we hope, certainly I hope, working together for the Federation can help others compensate for a history written in bloodshed and war. May we bind the schism between other and ourselves and untie the universe. No more secrecy, no more mistrust; these times are over, now we are full allies."

Silence rang throughout as she bowed to her audience. She did not need an applaud, or a cheer, or excited chatter; she knew she had aimed well and struck true with her simple, decisive words. She knew her own people well, and she knew how to convince the masses. She was T'Chall, and to T'Pol she was the truest hero to have.

She sat and Forrest stood again. His grin was restrained for the sake of professionalism, but he was glowing nonetheless.

"Thank you T'Chall. I only hope now that you have convinced your people as much as I felt convinced."

They exchanged a nod and then the Admiral threw his gaze to the other end of the table, to where Enterprise's fine senior crew sat patient and ready.

"Of course, for this all to even begin happening, we need a voice, we need representation for our proposal to give to the willing side of the universe. We need a team to negotiate and make the handshakes. And I could think of no better a choice than Enterprise, her devoted Captain and her loyal crew."

Jonathan's pride hit the roof. He tried to conceal the blush but it was an impossibility as heat shot through his neck and struck across his nose. He felt every pair of eyes upon him but he hardly minded. No point in being captain of the first ever-successful human Warp Starship if you could not enjoy the fame that inevitably came with it. Forrest gave him a nod.

"The repairs have been made and she's been given a good spit and polish. In a week she will be out once again in space, and so I propose to you Captain Archer, and your crew, your first new mission."

Malcolm sat fully composed on his chair, face alert, ears twitching. At his side Phlox held his hands clasped on the table, a smile ever hovering over his jaw, sitting just short of a full Denobulan grin. Trip was on the edge of his seat, inches from Jonathan's ear as he leant dangerously far forward. Jonathan threw him a quick glance back before he willed Forrest to carry on. T'Pol sat back, knowing no matter what was said today, she was tied with this crew until death do her part. Be it to Andoria or to the Delta Quadrant, she was bound to them, to those who had adopted her as one of their own, and would never have choice over that again. Never in a lifetime of two hundred years would she give them up, not for family, not for her people and certainly never for the High Command.

"Right now above us, orbiting Earth hovers a fleet of self-proclaimed renegade Andorians, five ships with one leader who goes by the name of Yulae."

T'Pol felt Jonathan edge slightly closer to her.

"He and his people need assurance that we are not planning to harm them or endanger them and their race in any way unprovoked. They need to know that the Federation is a plan to bring peace between such races as the Andorians and ourselves, and not a weapon of mass destruction, as they have concluded through suspicion and hearsay. Voices from both sides here, humans and Vulcans, would be appreciated in the negotiations we have set up for him, of which were agreed upon… rather shakily, to be polite about it. So, Captain Archer, First Officer T'Pol – do you both accept the mission?"

Jonathan was up on his feet in a flicker of a second, T'Pol closely followed. They both nodded their commitment to the proposal, not allowing an inch of superior knowing to show.

"And after that, Captain, will you be able to lead your crew as you have successfully over the past seven years into the future to continue to spread and influence the concept of the Federation?"

There was no doubt for him in it. "Yes Sir."

Forrest smiled, then turned to the other side of the table.

"Captain Gardner, First Officer Speedle – with you crew and Columbia, do you accept to share responsibility by seeking out new civilisations and coming to peaceful terms with them?"

Two men stood, one matured in years as made known by his silver dashed, mousy blond hair, the other younger and more sincere looking by the shadow spilt over his intense olive gaze. Both nodded in full, unwavering compliance.

"Then all I can say now is good luck my men, and Godspeed to you all."

. . . . . . .

The hall was slow to empty after that. Forrest had become a popular man and questions were thrown at him from all angles, no breaks in between them. This was the crux of his career, the climax, his 'big moment' – he didn't mind much.

Jonathan sat back in his chair, eased a smile onto his face and relaxed, preparing to wait for as long as it took for things to calm down.

"That was inspirin'."

Trip was hovering at his ear again, smile plastered onto his golden face, his entire body painfully restless as it fidgeted back and forth on the chair.

Vulcans and humans walked by them, sharing conversations, handshakes and the traditional Vulcan hand greet. After what the veteran Captain had seen these past seven years, it was almost like witnessing prayers answered, a miracle in the making.

"Inspiring, yeah…"

Travis and Hoshi moved up the table together, settling themselves beside Phlox and Malcolm.

"Good to have you both still on board… I assume?"

Travis offered him a coy smile. "Thank you Sir."

The Vulcan elders had left the event as quickly and quietly as they had coming to it. Except one. Except T'Chall.

"Excuse me Sir," T'Pol said quietly, standing and leaving the tight group, focused on nothing more than she who stood at the head of the table, arms hidden and folded into her elaborate robes as she waited patiently.

Jonathan watched her go, instantly made to follow and then felt his wrist grabbed at by a bony hand.

"I would not advice it Sir, please."

He turned. T'Kai was hanging over Trip to reach him, haunting blue expression peering steadily up at him.

"She has to make peace with her family, and her mother is about the best chance she has at doing that now. Interference, no matter how well intended, could only serve to distract her I imagine, and thus lose T'Pol her last chance."

Frowning for a moment at the misfit Vulcan, Jonathan forced himself to reason with her simple, sage logic and so slowly eased himself back down on his chair.

T'Kai jumped from one topic and tone to another almost effortlessly. "I look forward to serving with you, Sir," she stated tentatively, but eagerly.

Jonathan frowned again, this time with a curious smile. "Oh? I need to get myself a new copy of the crew list I think. Welcome aboard T'Kai."

Trip draped an arm over her slim shoulders playfully; something Jonathan had a hard time picturing him doing with any other Vulcan, T'Pol just about included.

"She's ma new right-hand-woman, an absolute wiz with the engines ah hear. Got herself transferred a couple days ago. Guess Starfleet an' the High Command decided y' did so well with the last one, y' weren't likely to shove this one out an airlock either."

Jonathan looked over his shoulder. T'Pol and her mother were gone.

. . . . . . .

On the conference level of Starfleet it had become a mission almost impossible to find a quiet corner. Clusters of excited humans and intrigued Vulcans gathered in the corridors and stairs, filled in the corners and blocked most doorways. Unity was a fantastic and overcrowding thing, they were discovering.

So mother and daughter abandoned the conference floor and took flight in a turbo lift, heading as suggested by T'Pol, to Starfleet's magnificent gardens.

Petals or red, white and yellow scraped over their ankles as they walked down the rose paths. T'Pol was frank enough with the ultimate question after they were done with the usual pleasantries.

"Father sees me as a disgrace. He has all but disowned me as his daughter. If he cannot bring me back to Vulcan with him then I believe as far as he is concerned, I no longer exist. Do you feel the same?"

T'Chall was a Vulcan who far out-shadowed her daughter in ever sense, from grace to wisdom. T'Pol was no more than a novice in her presence, a fledgling who knew pitifully little about anything compared to the established mindset of this sturdy figure. And yet T'Chall looked upon her daughter with no less than utter respect and admiration.

"You choose to speak in English, and you have a slight accent, an American one I believe."

T'Pol threw her mother a side-glance and a raised brow. She continued.

"I have heard the stories, just as many have. You dine with them, fraternize with them over and above the call of duty, you understand their humour and even delved in a relationship with one, a time ago now. They consider you no less than an equal, a friend, family even in a metaphoric sense. And I can see it in your face T'Pol, that the feelings are utterly mutual. You are devoted to them as much as you once were the High Command. The only difference is with them you are looked upon beyond your capabilities with science and command and they have discovered the personality under the uniform and the race. For that, as well as other things, you feel you belong, and that is all I need to know."

They stopped at a small trickling fountain and T'Chall faced her daughter full on. She took her by the shoulder and nodded.

"Your father only ever wanted what you deserve. He knew you were at a disadvantage not only became you are female but because of your born nature; that you are stubborn, restless and eternally curious, thus making you an explorer before a scientist. He fought with your teachers and tutors throughout your studies, bargained and negotiated with his contacts just so as you would be considered by the High Command. He was so proud of you and your abilities, knew they could not ignore what was a prodigy in the making. So when he found out that you had decided to stay with the humans, he was understandably devastated. 'Such a waste' he would always say. 'They will never be able to appreciate her. They're humans, to them she is nothing more than a target for their frustrations and prejudice'. He never took a moment, however, to consider who your Captain is."

T'Chall paused and T'Pol searched her eyes. She was as proud as any mother could be.

"He loves you T'Pol, as do I, and your brothers. There is just a fine line you have to be able to see between understanding you and rejecting you. He may not understand you, but he will _never_ reject you, and I don't think you realise that yet. You have your own life now, your own career, your own crew and perhaps even your own bond mate. We can no longer hold you back, and I am not ashamed of you because of it."

Her calm brown gaze focused beyond her daughter's shoulders and she dipped her head in a slight bow. T'Pol turned. At the end of the path Jonathan stood, shy and unmoving.

"He is a fine man, and he knows what he has. As long as you don't, he wont throw it away."

T'Chall stepped back and carefully lifted her hands off T'Pol's slight shoulder. She raised a palm in the Vulcan way.

"Live long and prosper, T'Pol. I know you will have a good life with them."

She turned on sweeping heels and with that disappeared almost instantly into the lush green of Starfleet's patch of Eden.

"That was your mother?"

T'Pol turned again and was faced by Jonathan in front of her, hands in pockets, eyes lingering on the spot where T'Chall, had disappeared into a forest of young oaks.

"Yes, T'Chall; former captain of her own ship, she is now a negotiator and advisor for the High Command. One of their best, no doubt why she was here today."

Jonathan pouted a lip in consideration. "She seems… nice."

T'Pol nodded. "She is a fair and reasonable Vulcan. She had given you her blessing."

Carefully Jonathan smiled. "I should probably thank her for that then."

"You should, when next you meet her."

He placed a hand on the small of her back and began to guide her back inside with him. This day was far from over.

"'When next'?"

She nodded. "When next."

. . . . . . .

_-A Week Later-_

There is a lot I will remember of this day, a lot that I will hold dear to memory until my very dying moments. There is a lot I cannot explain because on this day I was feeling things I had never felt before. But I knew I felt proud, and I felt to be a part of something that would be beyond the reach of most of my people. I felt passion, and faith and utter devotion to a real cause, all of which were feelings mutual to those placed around me.

The five of us stood in the turbo lift, silent and thoughtful. Beside me were Ensign Sato and Mayweather. They had no regrets over their decision to board Enterprise via sacrificing their places aboard the Horizon. They held hands and smiled at each other from time to time, devoted and on the cusp of shared love.

Just behind me was Lieutenant Reed, tall and straight in the back, fists clenched and white with anticipation. He had the stalwart expression of a Vulcan and the gleam in his eyes of a human, a gleam I had grown much accustomed to seeing in his loyal gaze.

Before me was our Captain, neither shy about his smile nor modest about his pride. He bounced constantly on the balls of his feet, rocking restlessly back and forth, looking around as if this were all knew to him, eyes ablaze with undying wonder and awe.

I knew that when the others around us focused on one of us, they focused on the two of us together, sighting us as a 'couple'. It had become official amongst the crew now, and Captain Archer, Jonathan, would grin and take my hand every time someone was brave enough to mention it, or look like they knew.

As the turbo lift door opened, I will remember for always the rush of adrenalin that hit every one of us. Blood turned warm, thundering through our veins, charging our bodies as we fanned out and took our familiar posts aboard the Enterprise bridge. I will remember the breath I held briefly as I sat down once more at my own station, running my fingertips over the familiar controls, turning at an angle in my chair to face what was behind me for a moment.

I would always remember the mental imagine I conducted of Commander Tucker, Trip, below us, giving T'Kai the grand tour of his beloved engines. And also Doctor Phlox, helping his energetic son Aldon, who was a near carbon copy of him in nature, and his animals to settle into their new domain, his own prized sickbay.

But I will remember best that moment when Jonathan hovered before his chair for a second before he turned back to me. How he made his grin into a smile so tender and soft it seemed to make his eyes water. And then how he walked the few strides up to my station where I slowly stood up before him and carefully nodded. And whilst the others settled down he gave me the briefest loving kiss atop my forehead and whispered "We made it," before he returned to his post, boyish grin back in place before he sat down.

I sat silently, remembering my mother and her words, and Jonathan's words when we were in sickbay and he thought I couldn't hear him. I reflected on his apology then and his apology a week ago, and then poured over the memories of our brief time in the future together. Thinking how it all summed up to a week ago, and how seven years on from this ship's starting mission, every decision I had made to stand by the humans had been worth it, and how I knew my future with them would be forever without regret.

Jonathan turned to Mr Mayweather and below us the floors hummed gently as we prepared ourselves to face space once again. His simple departing words would echo in my mind for the rest of my life and time to come.

"Well Travis, it's time to face the winds again. Take her out, straight and steady."

_**The End**_

_A.N_

Well, that's it – the end, finished, over with, all done. It had to happen some time, for a piece that was only supposed to be a short T'Pol monologue to fill the time during a dull weekend. And man was it fun writing this, and then hearing the feedback. It was always good to know what I was doing right, wrong, what would make a good touch here and there, when to lay of the angst… lol.

Special thanks should probably go to _RJAG _who halted me when I was facing major screw ups in terms of rewriting Star Trek history when it wasn't really necessary through my own ignorance (i.e.: helping in the Federation talk, of which to hell if I knew anything about it really before I was filled in.)

Also, I believe some apologies are due in order._ –clears throat– _

I apologise first to Travis, for putting the cheeriest guy in the crew in an uber nasty bad mood. Then teasing him with the idea of going home, before ripping that away from him…

To Hoshi, who got a face full of bad-mood-Travis, and went deaf (of all things to happen to a linguist) looking for a dog hardly even mention in the end, who would probably die an angst death if I continued to write.

To Phlox, whose OC son was, I believe, in it more than he, and who had more lines of dialogue than him. (And for also giving you the shortest apology.)

Then my sorries to Porthos, who got gnawed on by the big, bad she-dog bully, and thus had to wear every dog's enemy, the cast which is bigger than the other three legs. And not even getting any cheese for it.

Apologies to Malcolm for running up his dental bill by giving him the quirky habit of grinding his teeth. That and for having to scoff down one of Trip's own made breakfasts, and then having to do the father-son real important talk thing… over the phone.

To Jonathan who most likely had a heart attack for every time T'Pol got hurt (I'm getting to that apology in a minute). Who had angst and worry for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and who basically couldn't catch a break in his time off. (Just be glad I never went ahead with the idea of killing off your dog just so T'Pol could go out and get you a puppy all for the sake of a cute, tender scene.)

Great swells of apologies to Trip for taking his girl away and giving her to Archer. For only giving you the next best thing in way of compensation who happens not even to exist in the official Star Trek realm of things (T'Kai, btw).

And lastly to T'Pol. For making you shack up with a human, for having a vengeful father (I'm sure he's actually very nice), for having the bully she-dog gnaw on your ankle, slicin' an' dicin' your ears away, making you eat chlorine (twice), throwing you onto the Phae, making up the Phae in the first place, _killing_ you and then making you face Yulae… again (oh wait, I never did write that scene…)

Doubtful I'll be forgiven for most any of the above, but there's me said my peace anyway. So, only one thing left to say:

Goodnight and Goodbye

_Telaka_


End file.
